Behind Black Masks
by Pink-Pencil-Girl303
Summary: The year is 1944, and while all eyes are turned to Europe, trouble stirs elsewhere in the world. It's up to a certain reporter to pin down those who seek a profit, before it's too late. But things won't be so easy. Tintin joins forces with a runaway who's got a mission of her own... and nothing turns out like either planned. Tintin/OC. Infrequent coarse language.
1. Buenos Aires

**Author's Note:** Hi! If you're reading this, I already have a reason to thank you, because something about my summary drew you towards this story, and although there are millions of bajillions of other fan fictions you could be reading right now, you decided to click on this one. I do hope you stick around.

This story took a crazy amount of work, love, patience, research, blood, sweat, tears, and sleep deprivation. It's funny, you never really understand the lonely, thankless work of an author until you become one yourself.

Now, I don't mean to make any promises. But I can tell you I tried my darndest to write a kick ass Tintin story, the way he should be written, with action, mystery, a bit of bad luck, a lot of good luck, fighting, globe-trotting, pompous villains, explosions, humour, daring feats of bravery. And oh yeah, a little romance. But don't let that fool you. This is no dreamy-eyed romp, nor fantasy of a frustrated teenager. (Not saying the latter doesn't happen sometimes, though, I'm telling you.)

This is, at its core, an adventure story. And, after all, isn't love the greatest adventure of all? Maybe you'll agree with me, maybe you won't. The only way to find out is to read on.

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CHAPTER ONE

BUENOS AIRES

_**August 31****st****, 1944**_

IT SEEMS AS IF many stories pull the curtains open to sinister setting; underneath a violent storm cloud or in some deserted alleyway on the shady side of town, to hint at trouble stirring in the plot ahead. And so it may seem strange that, in such a pleasant city as Buenos Aires, a character could walk among its sunny streets with altogether dark intentions.

It was a crowded market through which Nolan Macarthur strode, slipping between the shoppers in agile determination. The sun sank in the weight of the sky, a ball of melted butter dripping down the necks of those who braved the midday crowds for some under-priced vegetables or squealing livestock at the auction block. Shimmering heat waves danced above the cobblestone, the air made even thicker by the swarm of bodies, their laughter and bartering, a cloud of voices above the canvas covered stands.

None in that crowd could've sensed the plans brewing in Mr. Macarthur's mind. Hardly anyone even noticed him, stranger though he was, and that was just how he liked it. He kept his hat tilted down over his eyes and his trench coat wrapped around his shoulders, despite the heat burning the back of his neck.

His destination was fixed on his horizon, stride quick and purposeful, mind abuzz. Heading to a meeting as important as this one, Macarthur had to ready himself for as much sweet-talking and manipulation it would take to get what he wanted. He wanted an answer. He wanted a 'yes'.

Suddenly, he let out a grunt, as something small and all-too decisive in their stride walked right into him.

"Oh," said the other person in the shaken way one does when they've been stirred from their own world. The young man brushed his blue shirt as he stepped back and offered up a brief smile. "I beg your pardon."

Macarthur grunted again and pushed past him. _Oblivious young fool, _he thought. _Better check my pockets…Damn pickpockets'll try anything these days…_ He pushed his hands into his coat and felt for his worn leather wallet. Satisfied that it was still there, he put the incident out of his mind and pressed on. _Focus, Macarthur, focus._

Tintin watched the stranger as he melted into the crowd beyond, and frowned. _An odd man, _he thought. _How can he possibly be dressed like that in this heat? And some manners. Must be late for something. Those kind of people always are._

He turned, gave a minute shrug, and took only two steps before hearing a sharp bark from the dog at his feet.

"What is it, Snowy?" Tintin stopped and peered at the ground where the dog was sniffing. A small white paper lay there, bright against the dirty grey cobblestone.

"Hello, what's this?" As he picked it up, Tintin caught a whiff of the unmistakable musky scent of the stranger's cologne, the man he had just run into.

He raised his eyebrows. "Maybe it fell out of his pocket." He unfolded the paper and considered the scrawled writing inside.

_STSCAEE ERUALSM EAPDATA NNEOSAP CERRONA UNMICOC EEECHCH NLROOHE_

_8X7 VERT._

"It's in code!" Tintin smiled. "How curious…" He was about to make a comment on the strange pattern the words were following when he caught Snowy's disapproving gaze. He sighed.

"I know, I've got work to do. But there's plenty of time to write my story, don't worry. I have a few days, and anyway, I don't see any developments in the political state of Argentina at the moment, do you?" Tintin gestured towards the happy citizens around them.

"This won't take long, anyway, it's a rather simple code..." He turned his attention back to the paper and murmured to himself as he walked on through the crowd, Snowy following. Tintin made himself comfortable on a small wooden bench at the street corner and shut the world out completely, a useful talent he'd acquired from years of working in the bullpen, and hanging around the Captain. Snowy hopped up next to him and huffed, knowing it could be any amount of time before he got a scrap of attention from his master again.

An hour later, there wasn't much progress. Tintin ran his fingers through his hair, scanning the scribbles in his notebook, then turning to the note. Neither offered even a glimmer of an answer. He groaned.

"Snowy, this is driving me crazy. It doesn't appear to be a very complicated code. My mind must be melting in this sun…" Tintin stood up, shaking his head as if to clear the fog of heat.

"I think some food would do us both good." He stretched and tucked the note and notebook back into his pocket. Snowy leapt off the bench and followed his master back into the marketplace, at the height of its busiest time of day. Tintin stopped in front of a small fruit stand, attracted to the scent and the lack of a line. The old man standing behind the counter turned around. A map of wrinkles graced his coffee-coloured skin, and his cheeks folded up under the weight of his smile.

"Good afternoon, my boy. And what can I get for you?" he asked in Spanish, but Tintin could tell right away that he was an American underneath the careful accent.

"Ah, I'll have a taza de fruta, with pineapple, grapes, and mango, please," said Tintin in English, hoping he wasn't being too presumptuous. He scanned the mouth-watering display, and realised how hungry he really was. He added, "And I'll pay a centavo for an extra tangerine if you have one."

"I'll throw that in for you free of charge. You look as if you could use some extra strength. Sun gettin' to you?" the man asked, setting about scooping up chopped fruit from tubs sitting in ice. How he kept that ice from turning to lukewarm mush was lost on Tintin.

"Am I that obvious? Yes, I admit I didn't think ahead. I'm getting terribly sun burned." He handed the man his coin and took the fruit. Snowy gave an indignant whine.

"Oh sorry, Snowy. You must be starving too," Tintin said. The old man leaned over and smiled at the dog, then reached underneath his counter and pulled out half a sandwich. He tossed it to Snowy, who caught it in his mouth with a happy jump.

"Thank you, sir. For the fruit, and for your sandwich." Tintin chuckled as he took the extra tangerine.

The man waved a hand. "Oh, it's nothing. I have a little friend of my own, and I keep bones for him during these long hot market days. He must be off exploring the streets. Allow me to introduce myself. Jim Martin." He stuck out his weathered hand. Tintin shook it and said, "Tintin, Ace reporter."

"Ah, a reporter! Are you here reporting, or on vacation?" Jim asked.

"Actually, I do have a story on the political unrest here in Argentina's capital. Do you happen to know anything about it?" Tintin asked.

"No, I only moved here from Virginia not too long ago, and I haven't kept up on politics much, I'm afraid," said Jim.

"Quite all right," Tintin said, finishing off his fruit cup. He felt the old man's eyes studying him.

"Tell me, my boy, what troubles you? You've got a worry stirrin' underneath your brow."

Tintin shook his head. "Oh, it's nothing really, I just…well, I bumped into a man earlier and he dropped a coded note. I like puzzles, and I'd say I'm good at them, but this one is stumping me. I won't get a moment's rest until I figure it out."

"Hmm. Determined, are you? May I see the note?" Jim held out a hand and Tintin gave it over. The man took out a pair of spectacles from the breast pocket of his plaid shirt and studied the note for some time.

Finally he chuckled and said, "Why, this is one of the codes we used in the war! Not for official messages, of course, just for notes between me and my friends. Yes, yes, it's a box code."

"A box code?"

"Mmhmm, see, if you put these strings of letters in vertical lines next to each other, in an eight letter by seven letter configuration, it will come together to make a message in the shape of a box." Jim handed the note back to Tintin.

"Oh, I see! Here, I'll try it…" He followed the directions in his notebook and held up the results for the man to see.

_SEENCUEN_

_TRANENEL_

_SUPERMER_

_CADORICO_

_ALASOCHO_

_ESTANOCH_

_EMAPACHE_

"Mm, yes. There you are." Jim nodded.

"But it still doesn't make any sense."

"Yes, only it's written in Spanish," Jim pointed out. "Can you read Spanish, boy?"

"Oh. Yes. Er. You find…no, meet…in the supermarket rich…rich supermarket. Okay, you meet in the rich supermarket at eight tonight…raccoon? Must be a code word. The question is; which supermarket? The rich supermarket…there must be hundreds in this city!" said Tintin.

"Well, there's only one I know of around here. Supermercado Rico. Just down the street apiece, two blocks in that direction, you'll find it. An odd little place, doesn't sell much, I don't see how it keeps in business. They sure do get plenty of customers, though; odd, shifty-eyed folk. Carrying packages and such. Looks to me, boy, like a gang hideout. I'd be careful around there, and don't trust anybody who comes in or out. Nothing but trouble, gangs are. Nothing but trouble." Jim shook his head. "If I were you. I would leave this alone. You could get into a heap of danger on the wrong side of a gang."

"Yes." Tintin nodded knowingly. "Well, I appreciate your advice, but I have a hunch about this, and I must follow it. I'm a reporter! My curiosity always gets the better of me." Tintin gave him a wry smile. "I'll be careful, though," he added.

"Alright. Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Tintin." Jim smiled and shook his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Martin. Your advice was most helpful. I just might work you into my story somehow," Tintin said. "Adios!"

"Adios!" Jim waved to the young reporter as he set off down the street towards the Supermercado Rico, Snowy trotting close behind.

* * *

It's me again. :) What did you think? Please let me know in that cool little box down there. I want to hear your opinion. Yes, that's right, you. And Happy New Year! *blows party horn and throws confetti* Hope 2013 is luckier than it sounds. I also hope you stay tuned for Chapter Two! :)


	2. Cabinets

And without any further adieu, here's Chapter two!

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CHAPTER TWO

CABINETS

"Somehow, Snowy, this doesn't look right," said Tintin. They stood in front of the store; a dusty, dirty little place with scrap cardboard signs hanging in the window to advertise wares such as crackers and cigarettes. Through the murky window panes, the shop appeared dim and empty.

Tintin checked his watch. "Well, it's four 'o clock now. The note said the meeting was here at eight… We ought to scout it out first. Come on, Snowy."

Snowy followed, cautious, at Tintin's heels as he pulled open the door and walked in.

"Hello?" He ventured.

Nothing but an eerie silence answered him. He shrugged. "Hm. I suppose it's alright then if we have a look around."

Jim was right; the store wasn't selling much. There was a small set of shelves in the centre of the floor, tins and boxes of food stacked across its sagging planks. On first glance, this seemed normal, but the food didn't hold up under close scrutiny. Mouldy bread, ancient rice cereal. Behind the counter were a few stacks of magazines; all four-month-old editions. Everything was covered in a thin layer of beige grime. Dust motes drifted through the air, catching the sunlight streaming through the window to make speckled shadows on the floor.

Behind and to the left of the counter stood a doorway, the room beyond obscured by a long, ratty curtain that might have been yellow at one time. Suddenly, the curtain billowed aside and a tall, lean man stepped out. He came to stand behind the counter and fixed Tintin with a pointed glare, furrowing his brows.

"Can I help you?" He spoke in Spanish, with the darker voice that lends itself to heavy smokers. Tintin was about to reply when a weak jingle came from behind him and the front door swung open. Two burly Argentineans hurried in, brushing past him up to the counter to carry out a brief conversation with the cashier. Their voices were too low to make out much past some formalities, but Tintin saw money change hands, and the pair was ushered to the room beyond the curtain.

The cashier turned and regarded Tintin with a sigh, as if to say, _"You're still here?" _

Tintin smiled. "I'm looking for something, but I can't find it out here. Might it be back there?" he spoke in Spanish, gesturing to the curtain.

"No, certainly not." The man drew up his thin lips in a sneer. "The selection is of a more... local interest."

Tintin nodded. "I see. And what interests do the locals have?" he asked, voice carefully light.

The cashier didn't have a chance to answer, because the jingle came again and this time, an older gentleman in a large coat entered the store. Tintin pretended to examine the paltry magazine selection while he watched the man from the corner of his eye.

He strode up to the counter, demanded the cashier's attention, and they flicked out another rushed conversation. The older man was slipping some papers, bills perhaps, into the cashier's hand when Tintin made his move towards the curtain.

He was almost through when a hand shot out and grabbed him by the shoulder. The cashier must have been stronger than he looked, because in half a second his face was inches from Tintin's, and Tintin's feet were inches from the ground. He could feel the paint chipping from the wall as his back ground against it.

"Not so fast, my little friend," the man snarled. His breath was hot and stank of stale cigarettes. "I've been patient enough with your foolish questions, but now it's time to run along and play with your friends, yes? _Si, bueno._ I think we understand each other."

He dragged Tintin to the door, swung it open, and gave him an unceremonious exit, kicking Snowy out after him. Tintin stumbled down the steps as he regained his footing, and landed upright on the dirty street. The door slammed shut, its bell trilling out a brief, happy farewell.

"Well," he said, dusting off his shirt and straightening his collar. "I'll venture a guess that the next time we visit that store, Snowy, it won't be through the front door."

Snowy growled and followed at Tintin's heels as they turned again into the crowded streets of late afternoon. They fought opposing foot traffic all along the sidewalk back to the hotel. Tintin kept a ten percent level of awareness of his surroundings as he walked, consumed in thought.

"We've got to find out what's behind that curtain, Snowy." Tintin furrowed his brow. "That store is a cover for something bigger, probably illegal and possibly... revolutionary. I have the sneaking suspicion that this has to do with the political unrest. A fake store could serve as a meeting place for a group of rebels, don't you think?" He barely stopped his train of thought to nod at the doorman as they entered the cool, carpeted hotel. "I think, Snowy, that after dinner…" he went on, "we might just drop in on that little meeting."

Snowy perked up at the mention of dinner and began to wag his tail. _Can't say I was paying any mind to what you were droning on about before, Tintin, but you have my full attention now! _

They ate in the hotel restaurant, Snowy parked under the table to catch the bits of pork Tintin dropped to him. Tintin ate his dinner without tasting it, so deep he was in thought. He couldn't pin a connection between the store and the stranger he'd bumped into in the marketplace, the man who'd dropped the note. He wasn't Argentinean. _His skin was pale…and his facial features very European_, he thought. _Whatever I've stumbled upon, it's bigger than Argentina. Perhaps not a revolution, then, but what? What would bring over-dressed Europeans to that tiny store..._

"Señor?" A voice jolted him out of his thoughts.

"Yes? Oh, the check. Just add it to my tab. _Gracias__,_" Tintin told the waiter. He and Snowy went up to their hotel room.

"I'm awfully tired," Tintin yawned as unlocked the door. "This hot weather really takes a lot out of you, don't you agree?" He tossed the tangerine from his pocket onto the bedside table and settled down onto the bed to do a bit of reading about Buenos Aires, from the table's brochures. He had plenty of time before the meeting.

A few minutes later, Tintin caught himself yawning and shook his head. _I don't know how they've done it, but they've managed to write the dullest thing about salt mining I have ever read, _he thought. It didn't help that the air felt like a quilt, settling over the room, wrapping its occupants in a merciless soporific atmosphere.

Tintin could barely hear a grainy trumpet, accompanied by the pop of static, coming from the gramophone in the room next door. _Where have I heard that song before...? _he wondered absently, before his eyes fell closed. The melody curled into his dreams and disappeared.

A bark snapped Tintin awake.

"What, what?" he mumbled, sitting up and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. The source of the bark had his paws on Tintin's chest, panting. A faint sense of worry dropped into Tintin's stomach. He pushed the brochures off his lap and tried to stretch out the kink in his neck.

"I must've fallen asleep." He glanced at his watch, and sat up completely. "Crumbs! It's nine 'o clock. Don't tell me I slept through it... Come on, Snowy!" Tintin leapt off the bed, grabbed his coat and dashed through the hotel into the street, warm and bursting with nightlife. Making his way to the store, he recalled his previous plan.

"A side entrance," he murmured, and examined the side wall for any doors. There were none. He went around to the alley behind the store. Tucked against the dumpster was a door, almost as grey as the wall around it.

"Behind the dumpsters… Strange to keep a door like that, but for the purpose of thwarting nosy fellows, it would certainly do." Tintin looked to the ground near the dumpsters and saw that the concrete had been scratched from many times of moving them side to side.

"That settles it! This must be the entrance they used." He pushed the dumpsters aside and opened the door, stepping up into a deserted space on silent feet. Snowy slipped in, and the door swung shut behind him.

There was a short hallway before the room opened up. Tintin crept along it, listening. There were no sounds of a meeting; voices, arguments, or papers being unrolled, but he played it safe anyway, making no noise. When he reached the end of the hallway, he flattened himself against the wall and inched closer to the room.

All was silent. Certain now that the room was empty and he'd missed the meeting, Tintin slipped inside to investigate.

It was small and dimly lit, a single bulb hung on a chain above the centre of the room. The second door on the far wall was shut, but Tintin guessed it led to the room behind the curtains, and from there to the rest of the store. _So this is what they're trying to hide, _he thought as he moved forward, taking it all in. A few shelves containing odd packages, _gun-shaped_ packages, lined the walls. More cabinets, locked and unlocked, leaned their old boards against the wall. Tintin opened an unlocked cabinet and examined its contents.

"Ah! A short-wave radio!" he whispered, smiling. Snowy rolled his eyes, thinking, _Here we go, him and his short wave radios. _Tintin pulled the headphones over his ears and clicked a few buttons, listening.

"Out of order." He frowned and took the headphones off, then flipped through the notepad beside the machine. Many coded notes had been scrawled across the pages, a mess of Spanish, English, and unfamiliar phrases.

He took out his own notebook and was about to record some of the notes when a small sound caught his ear. It was as faint as the whisper of a feather coming to rest on a wooden floor. It came again, slow and rhythmic… like…

"Breathing," Tintin said quietly. His heartbeat began to rush in his ears. Creeping around the room, he ran his ear along each wall. As he reached a cabinet, the sound came louder. His hand fell on the cabinet door. The breathing was soft and light, that of someone young. He clenched his fist, ready to fight if the need arose. Then he turned the latch.

The door swung open and a body tumbled out onto the ground at Tintin's feet. He stumbled backwards. It was a girl! She awoke in a snap as she hit the ground and scrambled to her feet with surprising quickness. Her mouth opened wide, the beginning of a scream escaping her lips.

"No!" Tintin whispered, and jolted forward to clamp a hand over her mouth. She struggled, and he grabbed tight hold of her arms to restrict her movement. Stormy emerald eyes glared at him as she tried to twist herself out of his grasp.

"Listen, listen, please don't scre- ouch!" His whispered plea was interrupted as a shooting pain ran through his finger. He released his hold on the girl and wiped her saliva off onto his pants with a grimace. She wrenched herself backwards and spat at the ground with a ferocious _"phut!"_

"You bit me!" Tintin gave the girl a wary look before turning his attention back to his finger. "I think you drew blood..."

The girl put up her fists, shifting on her feet with a murderous look in her eyes. "Oooh, buddy, that's not all the blood I'm gonna draw out of you. Are you kidnapping me? If so, you better say your prayers." Her American accent was tinged with a New York colour, the harshness of her voice complimenting sharp features and sharper eyes. She looked like she hadn't brushed her brown, neck-length hair in a while, and hadn't changed her clothes for about the same while. A beige messenger bag was slung over her red shirt, which hung off of her slight frame.

"No, no! I'm not kidnapping you." Tintin threw up his hands in surrender. "Please, just be _quiet_." Against his will, his powers of deduction began to race like lightning. He sized up her slight figure and accusatory eyes, yet struggled to pin an age on the girl. _Fourteen? Sixteen? Older?_

"If you're not kidnapping me then what _are_ you doing? You're not a Mapache." She had to turn her eyes up to glare at Tintin, as she was a good couple inches shorter than he was.

"How do you know that I'm not?" said Tintin. _So Mapache isn't a password, but a title... now I'm getting somewhere, _he thought.

"Because, idiot, they would never allow a scrawny little lightweight like you into their company." She crossed her arms, rats-nest bob swaying with the movement.

"Scrawny! I-" Tintin forgot for a moment that he was trying to be quiet.

"Look, Babyface," the girl interrupted him. "I don't have time for this. What are you doing in the Mapache's secret hideout, snooping around?"

"I could ask you the very same question. Sleeping in a _cabinet?"_

"For your information, I was listening in on a top-secret meeting of theirs. Now, answer my question." She let the murmur of a threat sneak into her command.

Tintin shrugged. "I'm just snooping around, like you said. Trying to find some answers. I'm here to research a story I'm writing, on the political unrest in Argentina. Are the Mapaches a rebel group?"

"A story, eh?" The girl ignored his question. "What's your name?"

"Tintin, Ace Reporter." He began to instinctively stick out his hand but withdrew it when he saw the look in her eyes.

"Tintin? The hell kinda name is that?" she scoffed.

"It's my name! What kind of name do you want?"

"Hm. Sounds pretty fake to me."

"What's your name, then?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"I told you mine."

She turned her eyes up at this, and lifted her lips in uneasy hesitation. "It's Monique," she said after a moment. "Monique Fronville. But you better give me a real name."

"Monique. That's a nice name," Tintin said with a smile, in an effort to redeem himself somehow. Then her second statement hit him, and he frowned. "Tintin is my real name!"

"I don't believe you." She crossed her arms and put her feet apart.

"Fine, don't then. See if I care." The words fell out of his mouth before he realised he was getting angry. _Why? I need to get on this girl's good side, whoever she is._ He took a deep breath.

"Monique, I'm sorry we got off on a bad foot. I... I think we can help each other. Can we try again?" Tintin stuck out his hand.

It was a long moment as she considered him, lips pursed in thought, looking him up and down and then into his hopeful eyes, as if she was reading his soul. The pause felt like an hour. Tintin felt himself getting nervous under her scrutinising glare.

Finally, she took his hand and shook it firmly. For the look in her eyes, she might as well have said, 'I don't trust you, but I'm pretending that I do anyway because it might get me somewhere.' Her hand was warm. She took it away, shoved both hands into her pockets, and drew up her shoulders.

"What do you want with me, Tintin?" She bit his name into two chunks, with a barely contained smirk. As if just noticing him, she glanced down at Snowy, who was regarding her in cold apprehension from between Tintin's legs. Her expression softened for the briefest moment. Her hand moved forward, then caught itself and drew back to her pocket.

This hadn't escaped Tintin's notice. "His name is Snowy," he said.

She nodded a short, one bob nod, and looked back up at Tintin. He cleared his throat.

"Well, I was thinking that we could have a chat about what you overheard. I know some things; you know some things…together we can know twice as much each," said Tintin. Monique frowned.

"Well... I don't know much, but I suppose I'll tell you what I do know. It starts with a 'fella named Macarthur-"

Tintin put up a hand, giving a quick glance at the door. "Wait, before you go on, let's go somewhere a little less dangerous. Does my hotel sound alright?"

Monique narrowed her eyes. "Sure…but don't try anything, wise guy. Or I'll shove your little notebook down your throat." She spat the last words as a parting shot, before walking out of the room towards the back door where Tintin had entered.

"I-I wouldn't dream of it," he said quickly, following her out and, once Snowy had made it through, shutting the door with a cautious 'click'. Tintin pushed the dumpsters back into place while Monique watched, unimpressed. He almost asked her how _she_ got in, but then that would lead to _why_ she got in, and that wasn't a conversation they could have in this back alley.

So Tintin wordlessly led the girl and Snowy back to the hotel, ignoring the voice inside him, the one that had warned him so many times before, telling him, _this girl is trouble. Trouble with a capital T..._

* * *

So... that's my OC. And I would love to hear your first impression! As well as any impression of the story in general. In case you were wondering about frequency of updates, I only posted the first two chapters so close together because the first chapter is kind of slow. Updates will be more spread out from now on, a week apart at the most, although I make no promises.

Anyway, reviews?


	3. Opportunity Knocks

Hallo, it's me. Ready for chapter three? Hehe, that rhymed... *ahem* Anyway.

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS

Monique followed the reporter into his hotel room with measured steps, taking in every slightest detail for evidence she could use to draw some conclusion about the boy.

An open suitcase lay atop the armoire, with only clothes inside. No drugs or guns that she could see. No handcuffs or dead bodies to be found either. _But he might be keeping those in the bathtub._

Tintin ushered Monique to one of the comfy arm chairs near the window and she sat slowly, watching as he locked the windows and bolted the door. That was the only thing he did that may have been ominous. Honestly, 'Tintin' seemed like the most normal person Monique had talked to in a long while.

Though she tried not to, hope pushed questions up to the top of her brain. _How much does he know about the Mapaches? Could he be the one to help me?_

"Now then," he said, sitting in the chair opposite hers and pulling out his notebook. "Tell me what you know."

"Like I said, it starts with a 'fella named Macarthur. At least, that's what the Mapaches call him," said Monique.

"Who are the Mapaches?" Tintin asked.

"They're a rebel group. They've been trying to take down the Argentinean government for years, but haven't gotten anything off the ground until now. They're the ones who've been making all the trouble down here," Monique said, then stopped. "Wait, are you writing this down?"

Tintin paused his furious scribbling. "Yes. I'm a reporter."

Just then, Monique had a real reason to be frightened. She swallowed and took a second to compose herself. "Don't say you got this from me," she said.

"I won't, don't worry. Go on," said Tintin. Was he wondering how she knew all of this? Probably. But to get his help, she needed to give him something in return, and information was all she had.

"The Mapaches call this man Macarthur. I never saw him, but I know he's British and has kind of a deep voice… anyway, he seemed very keen on getting them to agree to something, a sort of deal."

"Did they discuss it?"

"No, not really, more like he was just trying to persuade them. He mentioned that they would be paid very well, and that if they joined him, they were guaranteed success in their revolution. They were talking about a trade-off…an 'I help you, you help me' sort of thing."

"Hm. Did he mention anyone else?"

"Yes, actually. When answering a question from one of the Mapaches he said; 'No, Muhammad Kalahn will be caught completely by surprise'..." Monique mimicked the man's deep, chilling tone. She shivered. "That guy gave me the willies."

"Muhammad Kalahn, the owner of the oil company Ricaco? He supplies half the world with his black gold…" Tintin furrowed his brow.

"Must've been him. I mean, I don't know." Monique shrugged. She had never heard of the man. _It's like I've been living in a bubble_, she thought.

"If what you say is true, then we better go ask him if he knows anything," Tintin said, scribbling some more in his notebook.

"The Muhammad 'fella? How are we going to do that?"

"We'll go to his palace in Ha'il, Saudi Arabia, of course…" he trailed off and thought for a moment. "So, you want to…come with me?" he asked. Monique nodded.

"Definitely! I mean, you've got to have someone who knows what they're doing, right?" She smirked. Tintin seemed almost amused by this, for a second. She went on, "Besides, I've been longing for an adventure like this for a long time." _Yeah, that sounds alright._

Tintin stopped in his tracks. She could see it in his uncommonly blue eyes. They froze. Behind them, his mind was whirring. What was it? Was he going to say no? Monique tried to keep her face void of expression, but it was difficult. Here was an opportunity, sitting right in front of her, a chance she'd never get back.

_Say yes, say yes, say yes._

"Alright. You're in, Monique." He smiled.

"Great!" She returned his smile, standing up. "But how will we get to Saudi Arabia? Do you have a boat?"

"No, but I know a man who does." Tintin picked up the phone beside him and began to dial.

/^/^/^/

Captain Haddock was sprawled across a huge bed, still dressed in street clothes, inside his spacious suite at the Virgin Islands' best hotel. The balcony doors were open, and a breeze frisked on salty feet through the billowing white curtains. Any gentle night noises were lost underneath his snoring. His hair and beard maintained their usual state of scruffiness, his mouth open, empty whiskey bottle clutched in his fist.

The piercing ring of his hotel room phone shot like an arrow through his slumber. He jolted awake and grabbed it, yelling;

"Billions of blue blistering barnacles, Jolywon! It's one 'o clock in the morning! I don't need _travel insurance._ I keep telling you – DON'T CALL ME AGAIN!"

Tintin winced and held the receiver away from his ear.

"Captain, it's me, Tintin!" he said when he could get a word in.

"Oh! Hello, Tintin. You should've said so. What have you gotten into now, my boy?" His tone became jolly and, thankfully, much softer.

"I need your help. Captain, have you ever been to Saudi Arabia?"

"Many times, lad, what kind of a question is that?" the Captain chuckled. "I'm glad I gave you my number at the hotel here. You sound as if you're in a bit of a tight spot, eh? What've you done this time?"

"I can't exactly explain over the phone... It's better if I tell you in person."

"Got it. You need transportation?

"Yes. Your new yacht would be perfect for the job. Could you be down to the Port of Buenos Aires by noon Sunday? It's Thursday night now…"

"Yes, I could, but I can't."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Haven't you heard any news, Tintin? And you call yourself a reporter! All the ports of Argentina are closed to foreign ships without a government permit, and I haven't got one for this boat. It's because of the political problems, I suppose," said the Captain.

"A permit? How long does it take to get one?" Tintin could already guess the answer.

"Weeks, at best. They're awful uptight about these sorts of things."

"What are we going to do? I have to get to Saudi Arabia." Tintin began pacing the length of the beige rug beneath him. The phone cord stretched and coiled as he walked, tugging at the base. He looked over and saw Monique staring at it, waiting for it to tip over the edge of the table. He stopped pacing.

"I've got an idea," the Captain said suddenly. "How about we meet up on the Brazilian coast? I could be in Porto de Belem in two days or so, by the looks of the weather."

"That's it! And we could rent a plane and fly up. I'll fill you in on the whole story once we get there. Thanks a million, Captain, I knew we could count on you."

"Of course, lad, that's what I'm here for…wait, did you say 'we'?"

"Ah, yes, I've got someone with me. Her name is Monique. She's helping me with my story. Is that alright?" Tintin slid hope into his question.

"Hm. She can come along, I suppose. As long as she doesn't cause any trouble. Women are bad luck for ships... mermaids, sirens, and all that..." he grumbled, half to himself. Tintin was grateful Monique couldn't hear the other side of the conversation.

"Thanks, Captain. I'll see you in few days."

"Yes, and hopefully you can stay out of trouble until then. Never trust a female…" the Captain's voice faded into mumbling, then disappeared entirely with a click.

"Well that's that!" Tintin said to Monique as he dropped the receiver back into its cradle. "We're to rent a plane, then fly up and meet my friend Captain Haddock in Porto de Belem, Brazil. He has a yacht, and from there we can sail on to Saudi Arabia. Are you game?"

"Sure I am. When do we start?" she asked.

"Well, bright and early tomorrow morning we'll go out to the airfield I saw when I first arrived here yesterday. It must be a plane rental. I have enough money, probably, and then from there it's smooth sailing. Er, flying." Tintin thought for a moment, then continued carefully, "Do you…have a place to go back and pack a few things? And sleep?"

Monique's face fell. She began picking at a loose thread on the armchair.

"I'm... kind of a runaway, at the moment. I have everything I need in this bag." She patted the satchel and gave him a nervous glance. "Is it alright if I sleep here?"

"Of course," said Tintin. He couldn't stop himself from continuing, "What did you run away from?"

Monique stalled. The loose thread was now a bare patch of upholstery.

"I... well, my... family doesn't really understand me. We moved here from New York a few years ago and since then everything kind of went wrong. I thought... that I wanted to join the resistance, the Mapaches, and after an argument I decided I just couldn't stay any longer. I don't want to join the Mapaches anymore, not after what I heard, but I don't want to go back to my parents again either. They're so preoccupied with their own lives, I doubt they even care I left." Her eyes darkened, the green turned a shadowed grey in the dim light of the hotel room. "In fact, I know they don't care."

Tintin gave a solemn nod. He was debating whether to insist the girl return to her family immediately or leave her alone since it was none of his business, really.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," he said at last.

"Yeah, well, I'm glad I left, things have been a lot better. Anyway, I promise I won't be a burden. I'll just sleep right here in this chair, it's actually kind of nice." Monique shifted in the chair as if to demonstrate its comfortable qualities.

"Oh, no." Tintin lifted a hand. "You'll have the bed; I can sleep in the chair."

"No, I want to sleep in the chair."

"I insist. A chair is no place for a guest."

"I like chairs."

"Oh." Tintin backed down, surprised. "Are you sure?"

"I am. Chairs are swell. Beds are for boring people."

Tintin thought for a moment, unsure if she was being serious or teasing him. He caught a mocking glint in her eyes.

"Well, alright. If you're certain." He turned to Snowy and chuckled. "I hope you're not a light sleeper, though. Snowy whines."

The dog shot him a reproachful look.

"Goodnight, Monique," Tintin yawned as he switched off the light and collapsed onto the bed. He didn't bother with turning the covers. Snowy found a comfortable place at the foot of the bed and curled up. Sleep overtook Tintin's mind before he got much of a chance to worry about this strange American girl, who had just unexpectedly hijacked his operations on this case.

As he drifted off, the last thing he heard was a soft 'good night' from the chair where she sat.

/^/^/^/

Monique waited to hear the deep, steady breathing of the reporter before getting up. As attractive as sleep seemed right then, she couldn't rest yet.

She crossed the room on silent feet to the suitcase atop the armoire and took each piece of clothing out, examining the suitcase for secret pockets or secret anything. Monique could find nothing of offence; even his clothes were clean and unassuming. She repositioned everything just how she'd found it.

A quick inventory of the rest of the room turned up similar results. He hadn't been here for long and, unfortunately, kept his most valuable items in his pockets. His wallet, for example, was nowhere to be found. Monique decided it was just as well. Her previous idea to boost a few pesos was unwise, considering now she was saddled with him for food and transportation.

She snuck into the bathroom, flicked on the light, and made sure the creaky door was locked before turning to survey the room.

A toothbrush leaned in the glass on the counter beside some paste and a damp washcloth. Above the sink was a tall, bright mirror. Monique approached it from the side with hesitant steps.

First, a half a face appeared. A single cold green eye blinked at her, set against skin either dirty or tanned, perhaps both, and lining her cheek was a ruthless tangle of wavy dark hair. She took another step, and stood full before the sheet of glass. Two eyes blinked, and it was now that she remembered how just around her pupil there were grey chips, like flakes of steel set in emerald. She recalled standing in front of the mirror as a kid, wishing for blue eyes, eyes all one colour... well, just like Tintin's. She would close her eyes tight, and imagine that when she opened them, they'd be glittering sapphire.

Monique closed her eyes, and opened them to the same face that had been there two moments before. She frowned slightly, and her chapped lips protested the movement. She rubbed a streak of dirt from her slender nose.

_So this is what I've looked like for the past month, _she thought. _Strange to think I haven't found a mirror all that time. _Her round cheeks seemed thinner. All of her seemed thinner, in fact. Sensing an opportunity to make a bid in its endless campaign for food, her stomach growled.

Monique turned away from the mirror and considered the bathroom, clean white tile underneath a mat by the claw-footed tub (thankfully free of any bodies.)

_Well, as long as I'm here, I might as well make use of it, _she thought.

She drew herself a steaming bath, and scrubbed until her skin turned from dirty beige to a lighter olive tone, and raw pink where the sun never fell. Once clean, she pulled on a white peasant blouse that, ironically, was the only item she owned fair and square, yet she hated the thing. It was off-the-shoulder, with a lace-like ruffle at the neck and puffy short sleeves. She retied the piece of string around the high waist of her brother's brown shorts, then laced up her trusty old boots with sure, familiar motions.

Monique stood before the mirror again, ran her fingers through her damp hair, and gave her reflection a brisk nod. _That's better. _

She turned off the bathroom light and snuck back into the room, settling into her chair once again. She set her bag on the ground, moving her head in an attempt to get comfortable on the chair. After a moment, she grabbed Tintin's coat and draped it over herself as a blanket, though the night was warm.

Monique knew she was exhausted. She could feel the fatigue tugging at her eyelids, built up from weeks of running on little sleep, but somehow, in this strange room, her mind refused to rest. She remained awake for god-knows-how-long, staring out at the stars. They winked, unconcerned, from their configurations across the night sky. She tried to identify the north star - the guiding star, wasn't it? - but realised she couldn't tell Orion's Bear from the Big Dipper's Belt.

Monique looked over at the sleeping reporter.

She was beginning to feel some loathing towards him, and she'd known the well-dressed dork for less than two hours. She couldn't quite put her finger on the reason, but it was something in the way he looked at her; with polite sympathy, _poor crazy hobo girl._

And there was something else, besides his obnoxiously vague accent, something... ah, yes, he was a boy. Whatever. He was male, and Monique had resolved to rid herself of their type for good. If it had been up to her, she would've grabbed the wallet from the pocket of his plus fours and ran, to figure this all out on her own.

But she'd already tried that.

Since it hadn't worked, she hoped, no, _prayed, _that this 'reporter' would be the answer to her problem. If he tailed the Mapaches, and she tagged along, he would take her straight to them. It was simple, wasn't it? Now all that she asked was for the fates to smile on them, the stars to be in alignment, whatever it would take.

_Did he believe my story? _she wondered. _Well it doesn't matter now, does it. He's taking me with him. He can't change his mind. _

_ Neither can I._

_I don't know if I trust him or not…I suppose I've got to, he's the only person left on earth for me to trust. _Monique fell asleep with a conflicted mind; Tintin's coat pulled over her eyes as if to hide from all the world.

* * *

I'm not sure if I managed to do what I wanted to do with this chapter, but oh well. The adventure really begins next chapter, so buckle up! It's gonna be a bumpy ride... (I just wrote that with Doctor Doppler's voice in my head. You know, from Treasure Planet? Obscure disney movies ftw XD)

Pretty please review? It's good for your karma! Pay it forward, and all that. ;)


	4. Fate Strikes

Before we dive into chapter four (which has an exciting ending but isn't really as action-packed as I might have made it out to be - sorry :/), I wish to thank everyone who has reviewed/followed/favourited my story so far! :D Your guys' support makes me really happy and also inspires me to write better so that you'll continue to enjoy my story. I have tried to thank everyone individually by PM but there are a few I couldn't reach: **UneMouette- **Thank you so much for reviewing, and I know what you mean - it's nice when an author's done their research. I've tried my best with all the sailing stuff, but I really don't know anything about it. So thanks for pointing out the inconsistency, I'll try to be more realistic in the future, I promise. And really, I don't mind, if you see anything else that's inaccurate please feel free to point it out! :) **The Inner Titan- **Thanks for your lovely review (you were the 1st, congratulations!) and also thank you for the follow. You're awesome! **Differentbutunique- **Thanks so much for the favourite and the follow- you really made my day.

Alright... *rubs hands together* Here we go!

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

FATE STRIKES

Monique awoke when the early morning sun smacked her face. She squinted and blinked open her eyes, trying to make out her surroundings as sleep cleared from her mind. She rubbed her face, frowning. After a moment of abject panic, she remembered why she was curled up in an armchair in some stranger's hotel room.

"Tintin?" She stood up and tossed his coat on the bed, then dug for a comb in her bag to brush out her hair. Now that she was clean, her hair shone copper as the sun caught it in just the right way.

"Good morning, Monique," Tintin called from the hallway. "Did you sleep well?" He walked back into the room, grabbing more things out of cabinets. In his arms he held a duffel bag that Monique hadn't noticed the previous night.

"I suppose…"

"Splendid. We'll leave right away. Are you ready?" Tintin tucked his coat under his arm.

"I was born ready." She gave him a smile, throwing her bag over her shoulder.

"Good answer. Well, then, follow me." He set off down the hotel hallway, holding his suitcase and duffel in one arm and his coat over the other. Snowy followed at his side. Monique finished brushing out her hair and jogged to catch up.

"You're a fast walker," she said.

"Thank you." His mind was clearly somewhere else. "Let's see… I checked out, paid the tab…"

"Aren't we going to eat breakfast?" Monique asked as they passed by the hotel restaurant. Her stomach piped up in agreement.

"No time for that," said Tintin. Then he tilted his head, remembering something, and tossed a tangerine over his shoulder to her, seemingly from nowhere. "Have this," he said as she reached out and caught it with two hands.

She dug her fingernails into the gleaming peel, its tart scent released in a tiny spray of juice. _Mmm_. She bit into a wedge. It tasted like sunlight; sweet and golden and wonderful. Then again, when you're hungry enough, everything tastes wonderful.

As the sun came out into the world, so did the market; stands were just beginning to be set up in the cobbled streets. The smells from the tents were unbelievable as the food vendors prepared their wares. Clouds of smoke blossomed from the grills where meat sizzled, and the bright fragrance of pineapple came from the frenzied chopping in the fruit stands. Monique wound her way between preoccupied shoppers after Tintin, always three steps behind. _Is he trying to lose me in the crowd or something? _she thought.

Within a few minutes, they found themselves in front of a huge airfield at the edge of town. A hangar stood in the middle of it all, and off to the side sat a squat building that appeared to be the offices. Tintin opened the gate and walked towards the offices, Monique and Snowy trailing after.

"Closed until tomorrow!" Tintin cried, reading a sign that hung in the dusty window. He kept talking, but Monique wasn't listening. She and Snowy wandered into the open hangar. Right away her eye was caught by a small open-air plane sitting dead centre. It was a shining cherry red, Monique's favourite colour. She climbed up into it and admired the interior; black leather seats and, most interesting, a complicated panel of controls.

"Hey, Tintin, over here!" she yelled. Snowy, pacing beside the plane, gave a bark. Tintin hurried into the hangar and seemed surprised to see her inside the cockpit of the four-seater.

"Isn't it perfect?" she said, patting its gleaming side as he approached the plane.

"Yes, if only there were a pilot around to fly it for us." He stood beside the plane, looking up at her, arms crossed.

"Can _you_ fly?" Monique asked, pushing some of the buttons. She pulled at the stick, earning a disapproving look from Tintin.

"Yes, I can, but that doesn't matter," he said. "We can't just-"

"What do you two think you're doing?" a voice boomed in Spanish from behind them.

Tintin and Monique whirled around to see a tall black-haired man in a pilot's uniform swaggering towards them, goggles hanging around his neck. A bushy moustache twitched below his slim nose, as if it too were suspicious.

"Good day to you, sir. We wish to rent a plane. Are you a pilot employed here?" said Tintin in perfect Spanish.

"Yes I am, I came to take that 'closed' sign because we're open today," the man answered in English, as he had detected the accent with which Tintin spoke. He turned toward Monique in the cockpit. "And you can stay out of the plane until you've paid, _gracias_."

She clambered out reluctantly and stood next to Tintin.

"Can you fly us to Belem, Brazil?" Tintin asked.

The pilot let out a soft whistle. "What are you going all the way up there for?"

"We'll keep our business to ourselves, but can you fly us there?"

"_Si_, yes. Twenty pesos an hour." The pilot took a rag from his pocket and wiped down the nose of the plane.

"Twenty pesos an hour!" Tintin frowned. "That's a bit steep."

"It is what it is. Would you like me to fly you there or not?"

"How long of a flight to Belem, in this plane?" Tintin put a hand on the wing.

"About two days, maybe less... but listen, I will give you a deal." The pilot stopped wiping and turned to Tintin. "For entire trip... 260 pesos. And I'll fly through the night. That's a very good deal. You pay now, otherwise, no deal."

"I'll take it." Tintin dug out his wallet and handed over the money. "I'm Tintin, by the way."

"Alvaro Vega." The pilot offered his hand and they shook.

"I'm Monique." She put up her hand briefly, and Alvaro nodded. Monique was glad he didn't move to shake her hand; his fingers were black with grease.

"I have a little chores, then we leave. One stop in the night to refuel; I will bring extra fuel. Otherwise, no stops." Alvaro busied himself with inspecting the plane and fiddling inside the engine. He pushed a large barrel of plane fuel into a storage space in the side. He stood back and wiped his greasy fingers on the rag then, satisfied, pulled the goggles over his eyes and climbed up behind the controls.

Tintin, Monique, and Snowy followed him into the plane and made themselves comfortable. Tintin took the seat right behind the pilot, shoving his duffel and suitcase underneath. Monique settled into one of the two back seats. Snowy stood on the seat beside her, front paws on the side of the plane, looking out ahead of them and panting. _Oh boy, another plane ride! These always turn out interesting, _he thought.

"Here we go!" said Alvaro as the plane jolted forward, then rolled on out of the hangar. Wind lashed at Monique's cheeks with growing sting as they gained speed, running with a bump and a shudder over the cracked pavement of the runway. The fence at the edge of the airfield seemed to be coming too close, but right before they reached it Alvaro tugged at the stick and the plane swooped upwards. Monique watched over the side with a breathless grin, as they took higher and higher to the sky. Buenos Aires shrank beneath them, until it resembled a tiny doll city and the people in it smaller than ants.

After the initial excitement of take-off, Snowy sniffed about the floor of the plane for anything interesting. Monique contented herself with watching Argentina as it rolled past beneath them.

It was the first time in years that she'd left the city. She had learned to love it; the music, the locals with their dark eyes and wide smiles, the dancing women, the swish of their skirts. Even walking the blocks between her neighbourhood and the nice side of town, watching the streets become cleaner, brighter. And people wore their hearts on their sleeves in Buenos Aires. She'd never gotten used to that. _Gee, if only Alex could see me up here... _The thought bit her back, and she shook it away.

They kept flying for the rest of the day. Monique shared a few carrots she had stolen from the market with Snowy, who didn't really appreciate vegetables but would eat anything if hungry enough. Neither Tintin nor Alvaro appeared to be getting hungry at all. Monique decided they were probably the type who didn't eat much.

Somehow, the hours slipped away into late evening, and the cool breeze biting at Monique's cheeks grew more mean-spirited. She slipped the notebook she'd been writing in back inside her bag and sank down in her seat, feeling her eyelids grow heavy. The hum of the engine, along with the gentle dip and rise of their course, churned out a soothing, consistent whirr, as the plane was slowly wrapped in dusky sunset light. Monique let her eyes fall closed.

She awoke the next morning to bright sunlight and silence. She stretched, Snowy hopping off her lap indignantly in response.

"Good morning, Tintin," said Monique, leaning forward in her seat. He started awake and looked around blearily for a moment.

"Oh, good morning," he said, smiling, but the smile dropped quickly. "Why are we landed?" He whirled towards the pilot's seat. "Where's Alvaro?"

The front seat held nothing but Alvaro's helmet; empty. All around the plane stretched an expanse of desert, course beige sand lifted by the winds licking over the landscape.

"Where are we?" Monique asked, a strange feeling of dread slowly settling into her stomach. Tintin hopped out of the plane.

"Alvaro!" he called. "Alvaro? Where are you?"

No sound returned but the windy silence of the desert, swallowing Tintin's voice in its vastness.

"Alvaro!"

"Tintin, it's no use. He's not here." Monique climbed down out of the plane behind him, carrying Snowy. She set him down and the dog ran up to the wheels of the plane to relieve himself. _Finally! _Snowy thought.

"But why... why would he leave?" Tintin shook his head. "I don't like the look of this at all."

"Where are we?" Monique asked again.

Tintin leaned down and gathered a small amount of dirt between his fingers. He sniffed it and touched the dirt to his tongue. Monique raised her eyebrows. _I might be hungry, but I'm not desperate enough to eat dirt just yet_. Tintin wiped his fingers off on his plus fours and nodded.

"Yes, we're in the salt flats of north-western Argentina. The Salar de Arizaro. Can't you smell the saltiness in the air?"

Monique took a deep breath and noticed that the air was thick with a strange salty essence. Snowy sniffed at the ground and gave it a few experimental licks.

"No, Snowy, stop that. You'll only make yourself thirsty." Tintin looked around. "We must be close to the Paraguay border. Why would Alvaro disappear? Where would he go? Is there a note in the cockpit, anything at all?"

Monique climbed back into the plane and looked. "Nothing." She shook her head, slipping back out and onto the ground. She spotted a small brown square of leather lying on the ground nearby.

"What's this?" She picked it up. "A wallet?"

"That's my wallet." Tintin narrowed his eyes, held out a hand and took it, tilting his head. Monique watched his mouth drop open as he opened it and considered the contents. "Crumbs!"

"What is it?"

"My money's gone!" Tintin looked around as if it might've just fallen out. Monique gasped.

"We've been robbed! _Alvaro!_ That cheat, that good-for-nothing weasel! Boy, if I ever lay my hands on him, he'll wish he was never born!" Her fingers curled into fists.

"How did he get into my pocket and take my wallet without me waking up?" said Tintin in a perturbed murmur.

"He's probably a professional pick-pocket," said Monique, knitting her brow with a scowl. Tintin snapped his fingers.

"Of course! How could I be so stupid? The airfield really _was _closed, but to Alvaro we were the perfect opportunity to make a little money on the side. Perhaps he doesn't even work as a pilot there. And I was foolish enough to fall asleep. At least I always carry around some spare money in my coat just in case something like this happens. Belgian francs, but money nonetheless."

Monique cocked an eyebrow. "Nothing like being prepared, I guess."

"Well, this is a fine mess." Tintin crossed his arms and sighed. A barren landscape stretched in every direction around them. "Stranded in the middle of the desert with no pilot."

"No, we aren't." Monique perked up.

"Yes, we are."

"No, we aren't! We have you!" She broke into a smile. "You're a pilot!"

"I'm not a pilot. I just know how to fly a plane."

"What's the difference?"

"A license."

"Oh, come on, Tintin. Who's going to pull us over and ask to see your license at 5,000 feet?"

"We can't steal the plane! Who would fly it back to Buenos Aires?"

"I think..." Monique leaned against the side of the plane, grinning. "It would find its way back somehow, if the people at the airfield really wanted it. Besides, Alvaro stole your money! That alone more than justifies stealing the plane."

"It does not."

"What else are we going to do?"

Tintin thought for a moment, rubbing his chin. "Alright," he said at last. "I mean, we don't have much of a choice, do we?"

Monique shared a look of triumph with Snowy.

"But before I forget..." Tintin climbed back up into the plane, took the money out of his inner coat pocket and tucked it into his wallet, which went into his pants pocket. He heaved his beige duffel over the side and followed it out of the plane, balancing several maps and his compass in his arms.

Tintin sat next to his duffel and spread the maps out on the ground. "Right," he said. Monique plopped down next to him, and Snowy came over to walk across the maps, leaving dusty paw prints behind. Tintin brushed them away with a shake of his head. "Let's decide on our course. Hm... The fastest way to Brazil is that direction..." He shifted the map to properly orient their position, while referencing the compass in his hands.

"What's in the duffel?" Monique asked.

"Some sandwiches and water... I was saving them for later, but I thought you might be hungry now."

"_What?_ You had sandwiches and you didn't tell me? I've been starving for nothing!" Monique zipped open the duffel and dug around until she found a brown paper bag. Inside it were the sandwiches, of which she selected one at random and tore into it. Snowy begged until he was rewarded with a bite.

"Well, it's a straight north-eastern course over the Amazon rainforest to Belem. But the problem is landing. We need a strip of unpopulated beach..." Tintin muttered, examining the map closely.

"How can you tell if it's unpopulated or not?" Monique asked through a mouthful of sandwich. "Do they have the little people painted on there?"

Tintin shot her a look.

"Would you like a sandwich?" She smirked and held the bag out to him.

"I suppose I better have one now before you and Snowy eat them all." Tintin took one and went back to the map. Monique dug further into his duffel and pulled out a bottle of water. She drank some, then poured the rest into Snowy's open mouth like a waterfall, though the stream often missed and hit the dog's nose or the dusty ground beside him. Monique giggled as Snowy lapped up the droplets from his face with a long pink tongue.

Tintin frowned, and without looking up he said, "Don't waste any more of the water, you two, we have to conserve it."

Monique stuck out her tongue at the back of his head. Then, bored, she amused herself by taking inventory of the other contents of Tintin's duffel. There was nothing exciting; his coat and some clothes. Monique held up yet another sky blue sweater.

"Is this the only shirt you wear?" she asked Tintin, laughing.

"Huh?" He turned around. "Put that back, please."

Monique suppressed a smile and folded the shirt back up, tucking it inside his duffel and zipping it. As Tintin folded up the maps, Monique climbed up to the plane and leaned over to slip the bag of sandwiches and a bottle of water into her own bag. She caught Snowy's eye and gave him a wink. _I'm beginning to like this girl, _the dog thought.

"Ah!" Tintin snapped his fingers. "I almost forgot. We need to fill up the plane with the extra fuel. One moment." He slid the maps into their compartment, the compass back into his pocket, then wriggled out of the plane once again.

Monique followed and watched as he opened the storage compartment and attempted to heave a large metal barrel out. The heavy, unwieldy cylinder fell from Tintin's arms, and jumped back as it landed with a 'thud!' on the ground and rolled forward. He pushed it upright and considered the hole on the lid.

"I bet that's where the hose goes in," Monique observed.

"Do you think so?" Tintin said in such a dry manner that it took Monique a moment to realise he was teasing her. He stuck his head inside the storage compartment and pulled out a strange black object with a long hose attached.

"A pump." He held it up. Before he could reach the barrel, Monique took the pump out of his hands.

"No, I don't think it goes on the barrel. I think it goes on the plane and the _hose_ goes into the barrel." She crouched and went underneath the plane. "Now where is the fuel valve on this thing...?"

Tintin shook his head and went after her. "No, no, no. The fuel tanks are in the wings. And the pump definitely goes on the barrel."

"In the wings? They aren't, either! That's just dumb."

"I'm sorry, but that's where they are." Tintin took the pump out of her hands. "Here, let me have this, I'm sure it goes on the barrel..."

Monique rolled her eyes once he'd turned around. "That's never going to work," she told him.

Tintin turned back to her, affixing the pump onto the barrel's hole, and raised his eyebrows. "How many times have you fuelled a plane before?"

"How many times have _you_?"

"I'm just using my common sense." He shrugged, pulling out the hose.

"Are you saying I'm not?"

"I can't speak for what sense you're using."

"Oh, that's the limit. Fine. You do it, and see where your 'common sense' gets you." She stomped away and climbed back into the plane. She sat in her seat and listened to his progress, giving the careful appearance that she was petting Snowy without a care what Tintin was doing. There was muttering, a sudden hiss and then a yelp. Splashing noises and more muttering. Monique smiled.

A few minutes later, Tintin climbed back into the plane. The malodorous scent of plane fuel followed him in a smoky sweet cloud, and his fingers and shirt showed splotches of red; the stain of the fuel. He sat behind the controls for a moment, his silence daring Monique to say something, but she didn't. She went on petting Snowy until he cleared his throat and said;

"I fuelled the plane. It was quite easy, actually."

Monique nodded. "I could tell."

Tintin pulled the helmet and goggles over his head and began fiddling with the controls. "I got our course figured out, and I also have an idea of where we can land, so we're all set. There's only one more thing, to actually fly the plane..." he was muttering now, and Monique leaned forward to see what he was doing with the controls. After a few switches, the engine gave a hiccup, then rattled to life beneath them.

"Ah, that's it!" Tintin pushed the stick forward and the plane responded with a rush of movement, starting its roll down the dusty runway before them. It picked up speed, until the wind was roaring in their ears, and Tintin jolted the stick upward, the plane rising into the air in response. They quickly gained altitude after that, the gentle hills below them shrinking into ripples on a dusty beige puddle.

"There we are. We did it! We stole a plane!" Tintin laughed, slightly delirious from adrenaline.

"Hurray! Now do one of those barrel roll things!"

"No, certainly not. We are flying straight on to Brazil."

The day passed, calm and quiet, the soundtrack a purring engine. Monique entertained herself by playing with Snowy or doodling nonsense in her journal. After sharing another sandwich with Snowy for lunch, she leaned forward and peppered Tintin with questions about the plane;

"What does that button do?"

"I don't know."

"Can I press it?"

"No."

"What about that button?"

Eventually he suggested she let him just fly the plane and Monique, satisfied that he had been sufficiently annoyed, leaned back and returned to her journal.

What felt like years later, Tintin interrupted her composition of a ridiculous poem about Snowy by calling over his shoulder.

"We crossed over Paraguay. Now we're above the Amazon rainforest. Look!"  
Monique tilted her gaze over the side to see the emerald canopy of the rainforest like a leafy ocean beneath them. She imagined monkeys swinging in the vines far below, and huge snakes winding around the ropy branches. Her mind went to a book she recalled reading once, or perhaps it was read to her, filled with colonies of wolves, a black panther and a bear... the title came to her suddenly; The Jungle Book. Monique contented herself with imagining how the rainforest below was just like The Jungle Book, where the wolves called to each other in the dead of night and birds sang in the day.

"Great Snakes!"

Monique was jolted from her quiet reverie sometime later by Tintin's outburst. He went on, panic in his voice, "There's something wrong with the engine."

Monique leaned forwards in her seat to look at the controls. A red light was flashing, never a good sign. "What do you think is wrong?"

"I don't know, but it's not responding very well to the stick anymore." Tintin jammed a few buttons but, in reply, the plane let out an odd yelp and a bang. It began to fly slower, sputtering angrily.

"Now can I press the button?" Monique asked.

"No!" Then, more to himself, he said, "This doesn't look good. We need to land right away." He reached for a switch to drop the landing gear then stopped, probably realising just when Monique did that landing would be impossible. She looked out on the surrounding landscape and saw only rainforest, a tall green carpet of treetops reaching up to the endless sky.

"Golly, what a sight!" she murmured.

"But I can't land," Tintin cried, pushing buttons and pulling at the stick with all his strength. The plane only gave a stomach-lurching drop of a few feet and continued to rattle as it picked up pace toward the forest.

Tintin let go of the stick. "We're going to crash," he said.

A current of debilitating terror washed over Monique's mind. She watched, numbly, as Tintin turned around, fumbling about under seats and in pockets for parachutes. He found only one. He held it up, set his jaw, and pushed it towards her.

"Monique." His eyes were locked on hers, unwavering. "Take this and put it on. Keep Snowy in your arms. Then get out of the plane and hold on to the side. Pull the cord when I tell you to." His voice was fast, struggling to be heard over the rattle of the plane.

"But- I'm not going to leave you. I can't-" She tried and failed to string words together. This was happening too fast to think. She felt regret, useless now, for having annoyed him earlier.

"You won't, but you have to trust me." He paused, demanded her gaze. "Do you trust me?"

Monique's throat seemed caught. The world jerked and stretched into a never-ending tunnel of blue sky above and green trees beneath, a tunnel through which they would hurtle forever. Caught between fear and death.

"Yes." Her voice was just loud enough to be heard. With that word, Monique's muscles began acting for her paralysed brain. She put the parachute on her back and grabbed a stunned Snowy with one arm. With the other she climbed onto the outside of the plane and held on. She moved automatically, like a robot being directed by someone else.

"When I say 'now', pull the cord," Tintin said to her, but just as he stood up, about to reach for her hand, they began crashing through the canopy. The branches broke as they hit the plane's nose, leaves flying into their faces like a horde of vicious, sharp-beaked birds.

Suddenly, before either could react, the cord was jerked backward by a branch catching its small loop, a chance occurrence. One split second of fatal bad luck.

Tintin reached for her hand. For a single space in time their fingers touched, but then they were jerked apart as the expanding parachute caught the branches, pulling Monique and Snowy into the thick green leaves. Her stomach dropped out of her body and fell hundreds of feet down to the ground. In her mind she was already falling, the scream already tugging itself from her lips. She struggled in the parachute, and before her brain could hardly process the image, watched Tintin and the plane disappear further into the green. The velocity of the plane, a giant metal insect, tugged itself down into the forest.

Over Snowy's urgent barks, one word reached her, "Monique!", and then she wriggled out of the parachute, clutched Snowy tight to her chest. They fell through the sea of cutting, biting leaves and branches, arms grabbing out to catch the girl and dog, stop their tumbling descent to the bottom of the green ocean. Monique wanted to scream, but couldn't open her mouth.

She closed her eyes and kept her voice coiled in her throat, praying to see daylight again.

* * *

My very first cliffhanger EVER! Hehehehe Now I know why authors use them so much, I just got a strange feeling of devilish joy.

Review? Pretty pretty please with a quiff on top? :)


	5. The Amazon Rainforest

So... I was going to update yesterday (in honour of Tintin's birthday!) but my internet decided to stop working so here I am now. HAPPY (late) 84th BIRTHDAY, TINTIN! You're looking pretty good for your age. ;) To celebrate, this is a double update. :D And chapters five and six kind of go together anyway. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

THE AMAZON RAINFOREST

An explosion of light hit him when Tintin first tore his eyelids open. After the agony subsided a degree, he became dimly aware that he was lying down, and that every muscle in his body dripped with pain, or blood, he couldn't tell, but he was covered in it. He couldn't get up. He groaned and forced the persistent shadows from the corners of his eyes. A face appeared above him, _Monique, _good, he could remember that much.

"Just sleep." Her voice was distant and features vague, hovering over him. It was as if he was looking at her through distorted glass.

He closed his eyes. Through the glass, he heard singing, low and soft. The melody trembled on a swaying rhythm, a lullaby.

"Go to sleep, you little babe... go to sleep, you little babe... everybody's gone in the cotton and the corn, didn't leave nobody but the baby..."

Tintin listened for as long as he could, trying to stay awake, clinging to this weak voice that served as the single thread of connection between him and consciousness.

The thread broke, and the shadows took him again.

The second time Tintin awoke it was early morning; dew clung to his face and hair. Above he could see a piece of filmy glass, sheltering him from the rain. He pulled the jacket closer around his neck and closed his eyes, trying to find sleep again. Then his odd surroundings sunk in and he sat up quickly, bumping his sore head against the glass.

"Monique!" The name swam to the top of his brain out of the muddled depths. He kicked away her jacket and scrambled out from underneath the piece of glass, rubbing his hands in thick wet mud.

He stood in a clearing surrounded by the rich, crowded foliage of the rainforest. Ferns, as tall as he was, sprung from dark soil around the roots of trees that stretched impossibly high, blocking out the sky above. Vines hung from their branches like rope from the rigging of a ship. The smell of earth and vegetation was overwhelming, intoxicating even, and filled his aching lungs with every breath. The chatter of bird calls filled his ears, along with an underlying murmur, an insect hum.

It was then that the tangled event, the one that had brought him here, swam up in bits and pieces. The choked rattle of the engine... only one parachute between them, but what had happened then? And why did he remember _singing?_

"Tintin!" A familiar voice burst, and he looked up to meet Monique's eyes as she came from between the trees. "You're alive!" She stepped through into the clearing, a large bunch of bananas in her arms. "I was kinda worried about you for a while there. It's Monday, just so you know. I kept track on a tree, like all the good castaways do."

Snowy appeared from behind her, and once he caught sight of Tintin, he broke into a gallop, filling the clearing with joyous barks. The boy dropped to his knees to hug the dog and let him lick his cheeks.

"Snowy! Yes, here I am, Snowy, good boy." Tintin was unable to contain the ball of furry, slobbery joy in his arms, nor his relieved smile.

"Yes, I could barely pull him away from your side." Monique gave him a smile in return as she slung the bananas down onto the ground.

He looked up at her, grin fading. "What happened? I don't remember a thing."

Monique's shoulders dropped. She sat down beside him and only after she had found a stick to fiddle with did she begin to speak. "Something went wrong with the engine, don't you remember?"

Tintin shook his head. "Not really."

"You gave me the parachute. I don't know why, and you told me to hang on with Snowy to the side of the plane. But the canopy... we were pulled out. The plane, with you still in it, kept going. I got out of the parachute as quick as I could. I could only think about getting to you in time. We fell through the canopy, branches sort of breaking our fall along the way. Luckily, we landed in this soft mossy thing, and I only sprained my wrist, or something. I don't know. It hurts." She paused to stretch her wrist, then went on with a sigh.

"Right after we landed, I heard the most terrible noise. It was the plane crashing. I raced to the wreck, expecting the worst. It was. Then I saw your shirt and pulled you out.

"You had inhaled a lot of smoke by the time I got to you, and it didn't really look like you were alive. But you still had a heartbeat, so I carried you away from the wreck and laid you down here. I washed all the blood off, and I tried to fix up some of your cuts, but I'm not much good at first aid. Really, it's pure luck that you... I mean, I thought you were a goner for sure. There was so much blood..." She trailed off, voice growing faint. She shook herself and continued, "What was your plan, exactly? When you gave me the parachute?"

"I…" Tintin struggled for words. There seemed to be a blank spot where the memory should have been. "I remember…I was going to stand up to grab your hand, and then I wanted you to pull the cord. You would've grabbed onto me and all three of us could've been saved by the parachute…but then, the canopy! And the cord was pulled… you were gone before I could reach you. It happened so fast."

They sat for a moment, in a silence suffused with the shrieking chatter of the rainforest. Tintin cleared his throat.

"Someone sang to me. I thought," he paused and gave an embarrassed chuckle. "When I heard it, I thought that it must be an angel. Was that you?"

"It's some southern lullaby my mom used to sing to me when I was little." Monique shrugged, but her eyes betrayed more emotion than her words. They were wet, nearly brimming with tears. Tintin realised he felt sorry for her. While he'd been out of it, she'd been alone and frightened. It was somehow his fault, for putting her through this. They never should've stolen the plane. He should've been more careful.

His thoughts were interrupted by a helmet flying into his hands. Monique had tossed it to him. It was the helmet he'd been wearing in the plane.

"You went headfirst into the glass of the cockpit in front of you. That helmet saved your life," she said.

Tintin considered it for a moment, touching the bloodstains lightly. The goggles were cracked.

"No," he said, looking up to catch her eyes. "_You_ saved my life. Thank you."

She shrugged and looked away, ripping two bananas off the bunch that lay beside her.

"Well, I knew you were a helpless idiot the minute I met you. You can't even fly a plane without the engine failing or some other tragedy." Monique handed him a banana, her eyes saying; _you're welcome._

/*/*/*/

The first thing to do was take inventory of all the surviving items and record them in Tintin's notebook, which had luckily survived the crash because it was in his pocket.

"Right." He gave the pen a decisive click once the list was finished. "This is what we have. The contents of your satchel, which include some soap, a journal, a pencil, a comb, some twine, a loaded pistol, a pocketknife, a jacket, the empty sandwich bag..." Tintin trailed off and gave Monique a look. She smiled and shrugged innocently. He shook his head. "And a bottle of water that has already been used up. The only surviving items of mine are my notebook, my wallet, my pen, my compass and the clothes on my back. Oh, well. Besides that we have a few lemons you found, a bunch of bananas, and some nuts of questionable edibility."

"Do you even know where we are?" Monique asked.

"Not exactly," he said. "We were almost to the end of the rainforest when we crashed, only about 25 or so miles away."

"What's our best bet at this point?"

"Our only option is to go North, which is…" he paused, consulting his compass. "That way. If we keep a quick pace we can reach the egde of the rainforest by nightfall tomorrow. We'll have to gather some food and water and start right away, though."

"Right away? Can't I take a bath first? The mud here is incredible…" she said, examining her dirty hands and hair with distaste.

"A _bath?"_ Tintin raised an eyebrow. "And how would you do that?"

"There's a fresh water spring not 20 yards from here in that direction. There's some big rocks about halfway there." She pointed. "And you could really use a bath, too, you know. No offense."

"Er…none taken," Tintin looked down at himself. He was muddy and sweaty, his clothes torn up and stained with blood. He imagined he looked like some sort of crazy person.

"That's a fine idea. Let's all take baths," he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Great. I'm glad you can still see reason, even after the blow to your head. I'll go first. Stay well away, mind you. Toss me my satchel?" Monique asked, holding out her hands. Tintin obliged, and she stalked off into the forest.

Now that the crash was behind them, Monique's brief period of kindness seemed to be over. Tintin sighed and sat down heavily on the forest floor. Snowy came over and flopped down beside him.

"What have I gotten myself into, Snowy? The Captain will surely be at the port soon, and it will take us another couple days at least…he'll be sick with worry." He rubbed his temples, then looked back up and sighed.

"Well, this isn't getting much done, Snowy. I better get to work," Tintin said, standing up and rubbing his hands together. "We'll need more food for our journey, won't we? I'll go the way Monique came from earlier, maybe I'll find the fruit trees." He took off into the forest in what seemed the most likely direction, as there was a trampled footpath. He walked for only a short ways before coming to a clearing. Tintin could feel the burnt metal smell scratching at his throat before he pushed away the vines and stepped through.

It was worse than he'd imagined. The plane had run straight into a large tree first, before sliding down the tree and stopping only when it hit the ground foliage. It looked as if the plane had been bent in a giant angry fist, the curve of the metal snapped in places when the pressure had grown to be too much.

He approached the wreck slowly, with cool, observational eyes, as if it were an exhibit at a museum. He wanted to see if the dried liquid covering what was left of the front part of the plane was what he thought it was.

"Blood," he murmured, rubbing it between his fingers. "My blood."

"Good heavens, Snowy," he said as the terrier trotted up from behind him. "I must've really been in a bad way when Monique found me."

Snowy whined, as if to agree.

Tintin stood by the wreck for a moment, feeling oddly as if he were giving a moment of silence. For what, he didn't know. His duffel, perhaps. Then he followed the nearest path until he came to the banana tree and, sure enough, other fruit trees nearby. Their burdened limbs drooped, begging to be relieved of the weight. Tintin pushed up what was left of his sleeves and, as he gathered, let the questions plaguing his mind float to the surface.

If only he could ask all the things he wanted to about Monique _How did she come into the information about the Mapaches? How long has she been living on the streets? Why does she want to help me? _Why _did she sing to me? _But the questions lingered on his tongue, unasked. He couldn't get them to come out. If it was for respect for her privacy or in response to some subtle message she sent out, he didn't know. She was very difficult to talk to.

He pulled down a few bunches of bananas, stringing them together with the twine from Monique's satchel. On his way back, he found an orange tree, so he filled his arms with those as well.

"Looks like we'll be eating a lot of fruit in the next few days, Snowy," he said as he dumped the load onto the ground after staggering back into their camp.

"That's for sure." Monique's voice came from behind him. She entered the clearing and threw down her satchel. She wore the same peasant blouse and dark brown shorts and her face shone, freshly washed. She had pulled some of her hair back into a small ponytail, but the strands framing her face remained stubbornly by her cheeks.

"Oh, I feel so much better." She stretched. "Really, a bath can make a world of difference. You should try it!" She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

"Alright, alright, I get the point. I'm going," Tintin chuckled as he headed off towards the small spring. He walked about 20 yards, following Monique's footpath, and noted the large rocks as he hit the halfway mark.

It was a pleasant scene, the clear water bubbling up and spilling out into a small pool, surrounded by reeds and ferns. He bathed quickly, scrubbing his wounds with caution, eager to get out of the cold water and back into his dry [yet dirty] clothes. Tintin had barely pulled his shirt over his head when he heard a desperate, and very human, cry from their camp.

"Monique!" he shouted, racing toward her voice as fast as his feet could carry him. Tintin stopped in his tracks when he reached the clearing.

A monstrous panther, muscles rippling underneath shiny ebony fur, had Monique and Snowy up against a tree. It opened its mouth, fangs gleaming, and roared. Chills raced down Tintin's back.

"The gun!" Monique managed, scooting back further from the beast. Tintin felt some fierce instinct rise up inside of him, and he shook away his fear. He snatched up the gun from her satchel and, aiming directly above the panther's head, shot once.

The huge cat jumped with a yowl, but didn't run, instead turning in Tintin's direction. He could swear he caught the glint of anger in its yellow eyes.

"Shoot it," said Monique in a breathless half-whisper, watching as the panther began creeping towards him.

"Go," said Tintin.

Monique gathered Snowy in her arms and scrambled to stand. The dog suddenly realised her intentions and barked in protest. _That nasty cat is going to eat Tintin! _He thought, ears pricked, and he struggled in her arms. In one incredible leap, he escaped her grasp and bounded over, barking bravely. The panther turned and swept him aside with a flick of its monstrous paw. Tintin winced. Monique picked up the dog and backed into the forest quickly, watching the cat.

It seemed to be considering Tintin, sizing him up, perhaps wondering what kind of a meal he would make. The cat made a low noise in its throat, a threat, as it crept closer and closer.

"Now look here, you bully. I don't want to have to shoot you." Tintin made his voice loud and intimidating, but it didn't appear to have any effect. He went to cock the gun, but his fingers slipped and pressed the button locking the clip in. The bullets fell out and disappeared into the ferns about him. He tried to lean down slowly and pick them up, without taking his eyes off the monster, but it was impossible. The clip was lost.

_Think fast, Tintin, or you're done for, _he thought, looking wildly about on the ground for any sort of weapon. A large stone caught his eye. He picked it up and heaved it toward the panther's head with all of his strength.

The stone hit the panther right between the eyes, and it crumpled to the ground, rippling muscles giving a final twitch before lying still. Tintin watched the cat for a long moment, but it didn't move.

"It's alright! He's out cold!" he yelled into the forest where Monique and Snowy had run off. She came bounding out, Snowy close behind her. His pride had been more injured than anything else, and the dog seemed to be fine. He came and stood next to his master. _I could've taken him on, Tintin, really, _he panted.

"That was certainly a very close call!" Tintin said after a moment. He could feel his heart still pounding in his chest as he fumbled around in the ferns to find the missing bullets. He put them back into the gun.

"Is it… dead?" Monique asked quietly, considering the inert animal with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Tintin ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head.

"No, only knocked out. And I don't want to be around when it wakes up. We ought to leave right away." He tossed her the gun and went to gather up the fruit. Monique nodded blankly, then grabbed her satchel to pack up a few things. Tintin was already out of the clearing and whacking his way through the brush when she slung the bag over her shoulder.

Monique stole one last glance at the panther, then hurried after Tintin and Snowy into the green maw of forest.


	6. 27 Miles

CHAPTER SIX

27 MILES

The sun hung low in the sky when the forest about them began to darken, shadows creeping around the trunks of trees and among the low bushes. The discordant symphony of the rainforest had begun to quiet, if only just a little. Yet the trio kept trudging onwards, Tintin pushing aside the branches and vines in their path with ferocity.

"Don't you think," Monique gasped, her breath coming heavy from her lungs, "that we should rest for a moment? We haven't stopped since leaving the clearing, and I don't feel like I can go another step."

"Stop? Why would we stop? We've barely covered nine miles," Tintin said as he snapped off a particularly annoying branch from a tree.

"Nine miles. That's quite a ways!" Monique picked up her feet again and tried to catch up to the reporter.

"It's this dogged brush. Slowing me down! We should've walked at least 15 miles by now if it weren't for this… shrubbery!" Tintin growled, struggling with a prickly bush. A branch low to the ground sprang out and whacked Snowy on the nose. He yelped.

"I think I'll take a rest. I don't know about you, you can go on if you like," Monique bit off the words. She sat down on an old stump to pull out a loaf of bread and the precious bottle of water from her satchel. She downed half the bottle of water before handing it to Tintin, who drank a bit and poured the rest of it into Snowy's panting mouth.

"Where did you find that bread?" Tintin asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Picked it up from the market Friday morning." She broke off a piece and chewed it with satisfaction.

"Picked it up… fingers a bit sticky, eh?" Tintin sat down on the stump next to her and held out a hand.

"I didn't say you could have any," she said coolly, turning away from him.

"Oh, now don't be cross. I didn't mean anything. Please?"

"No."

"Monique…"

"Saying my name won't turn my mind one way or the other. You have to apologise."

"For what?"

"For being rude about the bread, for making me walk nine miles without rest, and…for being an idiot in general," she commanded, eyes glinting mischievously.

Tintin sighed through his teeth. "Alright, I'm sorry I was rude about the bread, I'm sorry I made you walk nine miles, and I'm sorry I'm... an idiot in general. Now can I please have some?"

"I suppose so." Monique smiled. She ripped off a hunk of the loaf and handed it to Tintin, who tossed half to Snowy.

_Nothing to eat but bread and fruit, _the dog thought as he gnawed away. _What I wouldn't do for a nice sausage!_

"So. Are you going to keep going, or are you going to quit this death march and call it a night?" Monique asked Tintin. "I know which one I've chosen."

"Ah…I suppose we better quit. It's getting dark, anyway. No good trudging about this kind of wilderness in the dark," he said, avoiding Monique's smug gaze. "And you can stop looking like you've won some sort of game."

"Oh, but I have. Now, who gets the blanket? I'll fight you for it," She held it up and gave Tintin an dangerous smile.

"No, no, you go ahead. I'm staying up on watch." Tintin waved her away, instead making himself as comfortable as possible on the stump.

"Hah! You just don't want to fight a girl." Monique set the blanket down on a mossy bit of ground and slipped underneath it. Snowy padded over and curled up on the moss near her, giving her a half-satisfied, half-annoyed dog sigh.

"Goodnight, Monique," said Tintin.

"Goodnight, Mr. Ace Reporter. Be sure to wake me up if any bears come around, and I'll punch them out myself," Monique yawned.

"Just like you did to that panther?"

"Oh, be quiet."

Tintin chuckled, and turned his eyes up to shadowed sky above.

Monique awoke sometime close to dawn to find fresh dew clinging to her skin. She pushed out with her hands across what she thought was moss, but found it was her jacket; soaked completely through. She sat up, stretched her muscles, though they complained, and shook out the water from the jacket. She considered, for one devious moment, flicking some of the water Tintin's way, but it was clear he was already uncomfortable enough.

He had curled up in the hollow of the stump sometime in the night, like a woodland creature. Monique thought of a little ginger squirrel; his puffy tuft of hair lying on his forehead with the moisture. She stifled a giggle, imagining Tintin running around gathering nuts. _Now _I've_ gone nuts, _she thought as she grabbed a banana from the bunch and sat down again. _Must be all this fruit I'm eating._

Tintin stirred under her gaze, and groaned, sitting up and rubbing his eyes at the sunlight filtering weakly through the trees. He looked over at Monique.

"You're awake! Finally. Some watchman you are," she snapped at him cheerfully, taking another bite of banana.

"What a way to greet a fellow when he first wakes up," Tintin grumbled, rubbing his neck and hopping off the stump. He snatched up a banana and ate the fruit in what seemed like four bites, then tossed the peel off behind him.

"Come on then!" Tintin motioned for Monique to stand up, and received a glare. "We've got a lot of ground to cover today. We won't be stopping after a measly nine miles." He threw the strung up fruit over his shoulder, then pulled the compass out of his pocket and considered it for a moment, before pointing his feet in the right direction.

"Hm." Monique shot him a look and gathered up her bag. Then, Tintin leading the way, they set off into the forest.

She followed along for at least twenty miles, or it felt like it anyway. _I wonder if he ever gets tired, _she thought. _that kid is a machine. I thought I was fit! Nothing compared to Wonder Boy here… _She picked up an oddly-shaped stone. She was considering its pretty colours when, suddenly, the stone sprung legs. She dropped the beetle and hurried to catch up.

"So, tell me about yourself," Monique said to Tintin, hoping to annoy him. It was becoming one of her favourite pastimes.

"Tell you about me?" He seemed surprised. "What do you want to know?"

"Why are you a reporter? You don't seem to write much."

"Well, it's kind of a long story..." he trailed off in a way that suggested he wasn't going to tell it. "And I can't write much in the Amazon, no. I seem to have misplaced my typewriter."

"How old are you?"

"17. Ouch! What a nasty shrub!" He grimaced, rubbing his arm as he scooted around it. "How old are _you_?"

"I'm 15," she said, briefly wishing she were older. 17 seemed like such a mature, worldly age. She decided to change the subject. "Why do you never get tired?"

"That's an odd question! Why do you collapse after nine miles?"

"Because! Normal people don't log more than ten miles in a day, trudging through the rainforest!"

"Well, I'm sorry you can't keep up with a scrawny lightweight." Tintin grinned, drawing out the words sarcastically.

"Huh?"

"Don't you remember? Calling me all sorts of names after you fell out of a cabinet in the Mapache's secret hideout? Scrawny? Babyface?" he chuckled.

"Tossing my words back at me, are you? Well, I have another question for you," Monique said, grabbing an orange out of her bag. "Why do you hardly ever eat?" She tossed the fruit into Tintin's hands.

"Because I focus better on an empty stomach." He tossed it back. "Can we please stop with the interrogation? I'm trying to think…"

"What are you trying to think about? Maybe I could help." She began ripping the peel off the orange, feeling a lot better now that Tintin was properly annoyed.

"I'm thinking about Macarthur. Did you happen to see him?"

"No. I hid in the cabinet before they came in, and was asleep before they left."

"Hmm… Well, I'm also trying to puzzle out how Muhammad Kalahn comes into all of this. Hopefully everything will become clear when we get to Saudi Arabia."

"When will that be?"

"It depends entirely," Tintin thwacked away a vine hanging in his path, "on how fast the boat is going, what kind of weather we run into… there are a number of factors. But if the Captain runs the boat at full speed, we'll get there in a week or so."

Monique groaned inwardly. _A week stuck on a boat with this kid? Oh, joy unbounded. _Aloud, she said, "What's the Captain like? Do you think I'll like him?"

"Oh, you two will get along famously." Tintin chuckled. "He's…a fiery character. He's gotten me into…and out of a lot of trouble in the time that I've known him. He's got a frightful temper, though, I have to warn you."

"He sounds awful. I hate him already," Monique grumbled, swatting at an insect on her arm. Tintin shrugged.

They continued on in silence. The air was as thick as a blanket, and just as smothering. Beautiful, brightly-coloured birds flitted past them, chirping their persistent calls, and there was always some small animal rustling among the ferns as it made a quick getaway.

Monique felt as if the crowded atmosphere was closing in on her, which didn't improve her mood. She wasn't even up to annoying Tintin, and as the day dragged on, it only got worse.

"Well, it's been about seven miles," said Tintin as midday rolled around. "I suppose we can stop for a quick rest." Monique threw down her pack and tore into a banana with vengeance. She sat down on a nearby rock and glared at Tintin as he leaned up against a tree, eating an orange.

She rubbed her sore legs and snapped, "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean," said Tintin.

"I'm sure that you do. Watching me suffer from this death march, while you and your superhuman stamina just stroll along. Just a walk in the park for Wonder Boy Tintin."

"I don't enjoy watching you suffer, no. It's not your fault. I suppose boys are just physically superior to girls…" Tintin avoided her gaze as he said this.

Monique didn't even dignify the statement with a response. Instead, she gave him her best evil death glare and then, picking up her satchel, stomped off into the forest. Every branch she encountered she snapped in two, and Tintin followed along, enjoying the scene.

"Boys... physically superior to girls…I'll give you physically superior!" she muttered under her breath, her eyes hot coals. She went on for the rest of the day without speaking to Tintin, keeping a breakneck pace. Snowy trotted after, confused._ I'll ever understand humans, _he thought.

Finally, when darkness fell, Monique turned around and stared him straight in the eyes. "How many miles was that, Tintin?" She bit off each word like she was breaking a rock.

"Er… probably around 18 counting the whole... day," he stammered, breathing heavily, as he leaned up against a tree. Monique, too, was exhausted, but in all her determination managed to keep her breathing shallow.

She stood right in front of him, her face inches from his, and broke into a grin.

"Say it."

Tintin sighed, putting up his hands in surrender.

"Alright, alright. Boys... aren't physically superior to girls." He slumped against the tree and slid to the ground.

"That's. Right." Monique drew up her shoulders and nodded. "Now come on, I'll bet we're only moments away from the edge of the rainforest."

"No, you go on…I'll stay here and you can come back and tell me what you find out." Tintin closed his eyes. Monique couldn't fight a smile. _Hah, _she thought.

Her curiosity got the better of her and she went on, pushing through the dense foliage. After about 50 yards, and no sign of the end of the rainforest, she turned around, dragging herself back to where they had stopped. Now that the anger was out of her, so was all her energy. She felt every step of the last 11 miles pull on her aching legs.

Tintin was still sitting where she had left him; his head leaned back against the tree, fast asleep. Snowy lay next him, a muddy paw over his nose.

Monique took the jacket out of her satchel and pulled it around her shoulders, making herself as comfortable as possible on the damp mossy ground. The eerie night noises began, low growls and swishes in the leaves above. Monique turned her head at every slightest disturbance, imagining a monster crouching in the ferns beside her, or a hungry python curling down the trunk of the tree above her head. But somehow, exhaustion won out over fear, and her eyes fell closed.

* * *

If you think that Tintin saying that was OOC (which it kind of was) in my head I think he was just trying to inspire Monique to pick up the pace. And it worked! A little too well...

Anyway, please leave a review telling me what you think and if you're liking it so far! It would be kind of like a (late) birthday present for Tintin. :D


	7. Civilisation

Hi, it's me! Really quick- Thanks to all who have been reviewing! It's so helpful AND fun to hear people's opinion of this story so far. I want to hear everyone's opinion! Good or bad; it all means something. :) **UneMouette: **Thank you so much for your reviews on chapters 5 & 6 - you make several very good points. Yeah, their epic journey was kinda unrealistic, but I didn't want to make a boring part even longer, so... that happened. Yes, this was a period of history when sexism was widely accepted. (Monique happens to have been very disconnected from mainstream culture.) You're right though, Tintin would be more polite. By the way, it's early September.

And now...

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN

CIVILISATION

Dawn came and went like a puff of damp breath on the outskirts of the Amazon rainforest. When Tintin awoke to the bright rays of mid-morning sun a few hours later, he groaned.

He was surrounded by vines and broad leaves, dripping with dew, shimmering as the moisture caught the light and turned golden. He stretched his arms out in front of him and looked over at Monique, curled up against the trunk of a nearby tree.

She had leaned on her side, knees pulled up to her stomach, with one hand stuck between her face and the bark. It didn't look very comfortable. Tintin thought he ought to wake her up so they could get on their way. But still he remained sitting, and looking at her. The silence was so peaceful, and Tintin savoured it. The moment he woke Monique up, she'd start talking and would be unlikely to stop. He decided he liked her better when she was asleep.

Just as he thought that, and felt bad for it, Monique's eyes snapped open. She breathed in deeply through her nose and took stock of her surroundings. Tintin watched in mild amusement as she realised everything was soaking wet, including hers said, fingering her shirt.

"I guess the rainforest has to live up to its name," Tintin joked as he stood up and twisted the edge of his shirt, then shook out his hair. Droplets went spraying out, and landed in Monique's face. She drew her brows together and frowned.

"It must have poured during the night," she said, pulling herself up. "I was so out of it, I didn't wake up once."

Tintin shook his head. "Neither did I."

Snowy woke up and shook himself, sending a refreshing spray of dew in every direction. Monique and Tintin put up their hands simultaneously, in a futile attempt to shield themselves, and chuckled.

"Come on, we can't be far now," said Tintin, picking up what was left of the fruit and setting off into the brush. Monique tried to shake some of the water out of her satchel and threw it over her shoulder, then followed after him and Snowy.

They walked for a half mile until they came upon a heavily tread footpath and followed it with renewed hope. Sure enough, after a few minutes they stepped through the ferns and into a small village. The natives were working about their mud huts, tending to livestock and conversing with one another. They had beautiful tattoos and other strange feathers decorating their bodies.

Monique made the 'V' of victory with her hand and punched it into the air. "We're free! Victory!"

This drew a few strange looks from the locals, but they were otherwise nonplussed by Tintin and Monique's entrance. Snowy sniffed around for any signs of food and, finding none, growled at a nearby pig pen. The pigs were unimpressed and went on snuffling in their mud.

"!Hola! ¿Donde está la estación de tren?" Monique asked the first man they came upon. He gave her a blank look, shrugged, and went on his way.

"Er… Monique, we're in Brazil. This isn't a Spanish-speaking country. The language spoken here is Portuguese. However, I imagine these people have their own native tongue," said Tintin.

"Oh." She coughed.

"We'll have to walk quite a ways before we reach a civilised area. I don't know if we'll find any sort of transportation, actually. I suppose maybe a train…"

"Hey, look! A buggy!" Monique said suddenly, pointing towards a tawny-coloured jeep heading their direction, bumping along the road.

"Let's see if we can hitch a ride." Tintin had barely stuck out his thumb before the car slowed to a stop beside them.

"Hop in!" the driver bellowed, a rugged-looking man in his late forties. He was tan, but not at all like the natives, and his accent was thickly British. He wore beige exploring clothing and a large sun hat.

"Good morning, sir, and thank you!" Tintin said as he climbed in. Monique hopped into the back, helping Snowy up beside her.

"I say!" The man exclaimed with the clipped manner of high-class British society, catching sight of Tintin and Monique's tattered state. "You fellows look like you've just clambered out of the jungle!"

"As a matter of fact, we have. Our plane crashed a few days ago and we've been trying to get out ever since," said Tintin, heaving the leftover fruit out to the side of the road. _Won't need that anymore, _he thought.

"A crash! How terribly exciting!" The man stuck out a large, leathery hand towards Tintin. "The name's Basil Manfreid. _Sir _Basil Manfreid, actually. I'm here exploring the Brazilian rainforest for the Royal Botanical Society."

Tintin took his hand and the man pumped it up and down. "Tintin, Ace Reporter. And this is my friend Monique, and my dog Snowy," he gestured towards the passengers in the back, after escaping from the man's death grip.

"Nice to meet you, my dear. What a lovely name you have," Manfreid shook Monique's hand and gave her a smile under his grey moustache. She returned his handshake with a brisk nod.

"It's nice to meet you, Sir Manfreid," she said.

"Well, my boy! Where're you headed?" Manfreid asked as he turned on a long dirt road leading away from the village. The foliage was becoming less and less dense as they drove on.

"I'm trying to meet a friend in Porto de Belem. We've got a ways to go! It would be very kind of you to take us to the nearest train station. Is it far?"

"No, not 15 miles, and the rail line will get you all the way to Tucurui! I can take you to the station; it wouldn't be a bother at all. So, you're a reporter, are you? An honest profession, my boy, an honest profession, and a growing one at that! I don't read much news out here, but I do enjoy listening to my short wave radio for the world news every morning, back at my little camp."

"A short-wave radio! Really!" Tintin's eyes lit up. "What model do you have?"

After a brief, fervent discussion over the pros and cons of various radio models, Sir Manfreid turned to talk over his shoulder and said to Monique, "So, my dear, what got you caught up with this chap here?"

"Oh, I'm just along for the ride."

"Yes, yes, what fun! I remember when I was young, dashing about the world! You'll have a good time of it, I'm sure. Tell me, did you encounter any animals of interest in your time in the rainforest?"

"No, not many, except for a huge panther! Boy, howdy - he was a monster," Monique said, shuddering.

"Wonderful! Did you shoot it?" Manfreid asked Tintin hopefully.

"Er, no. I knocked it out with a large stone."

"Pity, I do enjoy hunting in the rainforest. But, still! That's a story to tell the fellows back home! How impressive, to knock out a monstrous jaguar with your bare hands!" Manfreid clapped the dashboard, making Tintin jump. "How far did you have to walk?"

"Somewhere around 25 miles," said Monique with a proud smile.

"Well, my dear, you're lucky to have this boy to protect you from the dangers of a foreign land. He's got a good head on his shoulders, and gumption!" Manfreid told her. Tintin smiled, quite pleased, until he caught sight of Monique's dangerous expression.

"Yes, I am lucky, aren't I." Sarcasm brimmed at the edge of her sugar-sweet tone.

Tintin quickly cleared his throat."Is that the train station, up ahead?" he asked, pointing.

"Yes, there it is! Well, good luck my boy! Do you speak Portuguese?" said Manfreid.

"Only very little," Tintin admitted.

"Well, you should have this then, a little token from one explorer to another!" The man smiled, handing Tintin a small book.

Tintin took it and nodded. "Thank you."

The jeep slowed to a stop as they reached the town. It was very small, more of a train station with a town around it than a town with a train station. Tintin hopped out, and Monique clambered out of the backseat with Snowy following behind her.

"Many thanks, Sir Manfreid! Good luck with your expedition!" Tintin called to the man as he began to pull away.

"And good luck with yours, Tintin! Adeus!"

"Adeus!" Tintin waved as the buggy rumbled off down the road. Monique waved only to be polite and crossed her arms once the car was out of sight.

"What a kind man," said Tintin, flipping through the book.

"What is it?" Monique asked, trying to read the pages as he thumbed over them.

"Some sort of Portuguese/English conversation book… might come in handy, considering I know next to nothing of the language. And now for the tickets." Tintin strode up to the window with a sign saying 'BILHETES' in bold letters.

"Ahem, Desculpe… ah…" said Tintin to the lady behind the window, flipping through the small book frantically.

"I speak English," she said with one eyebrow raised, examining her nails.

"Oh, thank goodness." He tucked the book into his back pocket. "Can you tell me when the next train to Tucurui leaves?"

"Half an hour. Do you need tickets?" She was looking over Tintin's muddy clothes with distaste.

"Yes, two please." He pulled out his wallet and handed her all of the money that it contained. "And could you exchange my francs for, er... reais while you're at it? Thanks."

The lady took the francs and considered them for a moment. Then she sighed, gave Tintin a look, and handed him the reais equivalent.

"How long until the train leaves?" Monique asked when he returned. She was thumbing through the pages of the phrase book. Tintin looked at it for a moment in confusion. _How did the book get out of my pocket and into her hands...? _He decided to ignore it.

"Half an hour. Enough time to get something to eat, I should think," Tintin said. Both Monique and Snowy perked up and agreed wholeheartedly.

A brief exploration of the shops along the main street yielded the discovery of a small restaurant. Ignoring the 'please wait to be seated' sign, Monique found seats for them and began perusing the menu.

"Can I see the phrase book?" said Tintin as the waiter neared their table. "I'll order for you."

"No, I can order," said Monique, then smiled up at the waiter. "Olá! Eu gostaria de pedir o ... placa de frango. E uma limonada, por favor." She handed the book to Tintin, who stared at her, agape. He shook his head and said, "Mesmo," pointing to Monique, meaning 'same'.

"How did you get all that out of five minutes with that book?" Tintin asked her once the waiter had left.

"Oh, Portuguese is a lot like Spanish, just with more 'u's." Monique dug through her bag.

"I see." Tintin glanced out the window and tried to brush the mud off his shirt. "I can't wait to get out of these clothes," he grumbled. "We're getting a lot of strange looks from passersby."

"Maybe we should get some native clothing to blend in with the locals." Monique giggled, opening up her journal and beginning to scribble.

"That's a good idea." Tintin nodded.

"No, I was kidding. Please, no." She shook her head, giving him a look.

"Why not? We should make an attempt to be inconspicuous. We stick out like sore thumbs."

"I won't be caught dead in those…whatever they are." She gestured to the long, brightly-coloured dress wrapped around the hips of a woman walking past the window.

"Oh, I don't know, I think that would look rather fetching on you." Tintin grinned.

Monique rolled her eyes and returned to her notebook. Tintin flipped through the phrase book and tried to keep his mind off his empty stomach. Delicious aromas floated over to their table from the kitchen, but no food.

Just then, a waiter emerged from the kitchen with a full tray balanced on his hip. He walked over to their table. Monique, Tintin and Snowy all straightened up in anticipation, and watched the tray... as the waiter walked right past them and slid the meal onto the neighbouring table. The trio sank back into their seats.

Ten minutes dragged past, but still no sign of their order.

Monique sighed. "I feel like I could eat someone alive."

Tintin leaned back slightly. "Not me. Really, I would taste horrible."

Another full tray sashayed past them. When Tintin looked back at Monique, she was chewing away at a tortilla. He brought his fingers to his brow and shook his head.

Monique shoved the rest of the tortilla in her mouth and shrugged. "What? I'm hungry."

Another tray emerged from the kitchen, but Tintin and Monique paid it no attention until the plates came to rest on their table.

"Finally!" Monique burst, then shoved her mouth full of chicken without pausing to pick up her utensils. Tintin pursed his lips, picked up his knife and fork and began pointedly cutting his chicken. He dropped half of his meal to Snowy, bite by bite, who chewed happily. _Finally, out of that fruit-filled nightmare and back into civilisation! _The dog thought.

Halfway through his third bite, while Monique was on her thirtieth, Tintin glanced at his watch.

"Crumbs!" He dropped his fork back onto his plate and stood up. Monique stopped mid-chew and regarded him with mild apprehension.

"Our train leaves in two minutes! Come on!" He threw a few bills down on the table and hurried out of the restaurant, Snowy at his heels. The train station was down the street one and over one block, and the town hadn't sprung a population in the last fifteen minutes, so the walk was quick. But the run was faster.

"You've got to get out of that habit," Monique panted to him as they ran to the platform. Tintin glanced over at her, glad to see she'd caught up.

"What habit?" He handed the ticket man their tickets and stepped up into the train. He slipped into an empty compartment, Monique still chattering away as she followed him in.

"Jumping up and running off. Must be a reporter thing. Or maybe it's just you." She plopped down into the seat across from him with a frown.

"Sorry, I'm just anxious to get to the Captain. Maybe we could send him a telegram once we get to Tucurui…"

Monique lifted her eyebrows with a shrug, then opened her notebook and resumed her writing. The train's whistle blew and they lurched forward, slowly gaining speed as the landscape rolled past them.

The ride passed uneventfully for an hour or so. Monique was quiet, drawing, or writing, or something, in her journal. Tintin had no idea what she was doing exactly, because every time he looked over at her, she put her hand over the page. He sat studying the Portuguese conversation book with Snowy curled up next to him, and glanced out the window every once in awhile. The surrounding landscape became more and more populated as they rattled on, huts turning to shack-like houses clumped in shantytowns.

"Tintin, guess what!"

He snapped his head up from the book to see Monique leaning in through the door of the compartment, beaming. He hadn't even noticed that she'd left. Her hair was wet.

"What? What happened to your hair?"

"I washed it! They have all this great soap in the train bathroom, and if you want to you can wash your face and neck and hair, practically like a bath. I highly recommend it, if you want to look less like a refugee from some mud attack." She slid back into her seat and began brushing out the water from her hair.

"Hm. Perhaps I'll try it," said Tintin, trying to recall the last time he'd been given the opportunity to use soap.

Giving himself a semi-bath in a cramped train restroom certainly wasn't something Tintin wanted to make a habit of, but he had to admit as he walked back to the compartment, running his fingers through his hair to dry it out, he felt more human again. He'd even carried an annoyed Snowy along with him and tried to wash him, resulting in mud and soap all over Tintin and the bathroom, and a somewhat whiter coat on the dog. Snowy drew up his chin and tail as he followed his master. He certainly wasn't going down without a fight _during_ a bath, but he did like how he looked _after_ them.

Tintin settled back into his seat. Monique was scribbling away in her journal, obviously not very open to conversation. He returned to the Portuguese conversation book, but his mind was too restless to study. He turned events over, trying to focus on the case at hand, but his thoughts, annoyingly, kept falling back to Monique.

Tintin had to admit, he didn't know very many girls his age. Or _any _that he could think of, actually. He couldn't put his finger on the reason. He was just too busy, he supposed. His work took up so much of his life, the line between the two began to blur. And you don't meet too many girls taking down crime organisations.

He had nothing to compare Monique's idiosyncrasies with, but he imagined maybe all 15-year-old girls acted this way._ Rather cheeky and contrarian. She's always eager to find fault with me, _he thought as he considered her bent form, face over her notebook. Strands of short, messy hair fell upon her cheeks as she leaned forward, and every once in a while she would tuck them back behind her ear. She bit her lower lip in concentration, tapping her left foot as she thought. Her cheeks had a slight rosy flush, as it was hot in their compartment.

Suddenly she snapped her head up and fixed Tintin with a suspicious glare.

"What is your problem? You've been staring at me for the past five minutes!" Monique cocked an eyebrow. Tintin fought the heat creeping up his neck, to no avail.

"Er…I…Sorry, I was just. Th-thinking. Staring off into space, you know." He waved his hand vaguely, and hoped the flush he felt in his cheeks wasn't too obvious. Monique shook her head and gave him a look.

The train began to lose speed, gradually until it rolled to a full stop. The release of steam hissed outside their open window.

"Ah, we've arrived in Tucurui! Come on," Tintin said, voice brisk, trying to put the moment behind him. "First thing first is to find a telegraph office. Then, some new clothes." He made his way off the train and out onto the platform. Monique followed, shading her eyes from the glare after the dim compartment. Snowy hopped out behind her, sniffing about the new city for smells of food. He sought out a meat stand in a small street market near the train station, and bounded over to it, hoping for leftovers.

"Snowy!" Tintin called, hurrying after. "Snowy, come back here!" He followed the dog up to the booth, making generally discouraging remarks, but Snowy didn't take any heed. Monique joined them and examined the booth's wares with hungry eyes.

"Ooh, pork. That looks good," she said.

"We just ate!" said Tintin, exasperated, as he looked about the main street. _There must be a telegraph office somewhere nearby... _he thought.

"Yeah, three hours ago," Monique whined.

Tintin sighed. "Fine, you and Snowy can have a... pork whatever. Then you have to help me find the telegraph office. We've got to stay focused." He gave some money to the man behind the booth and pointed to the pork. The man made up a sandwich and handed it to Monique. Snowy hopped up and down next to her until she dropped him some of the meat.

"Where is the telegraph office?" Tintin asked the man in Portuguese.

"Down the street, to the left," he said, pointing. After quickly consulting the book, Tintin determined what he meant.

"_Obrigado._" Tintin nodded, heading off down the street in that direction. Monique followed after him, her mouth full of pork. They came upon the office and Tintin hurried inside.

When he emerged a few minutes later, he felt considerably relieved.

"There, that's done! Hopefully he receives it soon." Tintin joined Monique on the bench outside. "I also sent a telegram to some friends I have in the Scotland Yard detective force... through their connections, they can get me some information about Macarthur. I told them to meet me in Ha'il, Saudi Arabia, which is where Muhammad Kalahn's palace is located."

"What did you say in your telegram to the Captain 'fella?" Monique asked with her mouth full of the last bite of her sandwich, as she wiped her fingers on her muddy pants. Tintin handed her the receipt, which had a copy of the telegram on it.

[xx] DEAR CAPTAIN [STOP] WE ARE WELL [STOP]

PLANE CRASHED IN AMAZON SATURDAY [STOP]

WE ARE IN TUCURUI [STOP] SEE YOU SOON [STOP]

SINCERELY, TINTIN [xx]

"What if he left Porto de Belem by now?" Monique asked.

"No, he would wait for us. Have you seen any clothing shops here yet?"

A few minutes later, Tintin stood before the single mirror in a cramped, dusty shop across the street, contemplating his new attire. He wore a plain white cotton shirt and nice sturdy boots. It was the pants that made him doubtful.

They were cargo shorts, definitely not what he usually wore, but then again he was headed to the Middle East. Plus fours and knee high socks wouldn't be such practical apparel there. They didn't have any at this store anyway. Tintin counted the pockets on the thick tan shorts. _Seven_, he determined, with a chuckle

"I'll take them," he told the clerk, "and the shirt and shoes as well." Tintin folded up his old clothes and tucked them underneath his arm. "Monique? Where did you go?" He looked around.

"I'm coming out," she called from inside the dressing room. The door swung open. "Here I am! How do I look?" She twirled around in front of the mirror. She wore a green polo shirt and a pair of light beige cotton shorts that fell to her knee. She had also found a pair of army-green thick soled boots, the laces undone.

"It's not the most feminine look..." Tintin began, but stopped quickly when he saw Monique's face, wishing he could stuff the words back into his mouth.

"Excuse me, but I don't have to look _feminine_ all the time. Besides, is a skirt a very practical choice for one who's about to set off to Saudi Arabia on a gangster hunt? I don't think so. I like it." She gave her reflection a satisfied little nod. Tintin shrugged. Snowy huffed. _This is precisely why dogs never bother with clothes._  
Tintin handed the clerk the money, thanked him, and followed Monique out of the store. After disposing of their old clothes, they faced the bustling, sizzling afternoon. Perspiration sprang to Tintin's brow under the relentless sun.

"So what are we going to do now? In our new clothes?" Monique asked him as they made their way down the sidewalk, her skipping and him with his hands in two of his numerous pockets.

"I say we catch the next train out to Belem. Come on, the station's just there."

They wound their way through the sun-soaked crowd to a ticket counter on the wooden platform. A stocky, sweaty man sat behind the counter, fanning his face with a manila folder.

"Hello," Tintin said in Portuguese. "When does the next train leave for Belem?"

"Half past eight 'o clock," the man replied.

Tintin drew back from the counter. _Crumbs! Another two and a half hour delay. What an odyssey this has turned out to be. _He sighed.

"Two tickets, please." Tintin handed the man payment and received two small papers in return, which he tucked safely into one of his pockets. He walked back over to where Monique was twirling around a pole on the platform.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"The train leaves at half past eight. We just have to hang about here, I suppose, until then." Tintin waved a hand at the surrounding populace disdainfully. He disliked hanging about. Monique shrugged.

"Oh, well. I wanted to see what they were selling down there anyway. Let's go." She leapt off the platform and set off towards the marketplace, leaving Tintin and Snowy no choice but to follow along behind.

* * *

Editing this, I realised that it's mostly just a big chapter where absolutely nothing happens. In hindsight, I should've made both chapter 6 & 7 shorter/the same chapter - all this useless filler stuff really has nothing to do with the actual story. I wrote this first part of the story the better part of a year ago, and I think I've learned a lot since then. Back then I thought that Tintin and Monique needed time to get to know each other - they really don't. That should happen naturally throughout the course of the story. So I'm sorry you're having to put up with me here - learning to write is a very messy process.

That said, I assure you that next chapter we get back into the main storyline! With a new discovery comes new dangers, and Tintin and Monique are about to find something big. If you're intrigued... pretty please review! ;D


	8. Again

And now, I present the segway from that random interlude back into the real story! ;D Daniella the muggle made a very good point in her review on the last chapter - as long as the reader learns something new about your characters in each scene, there will be no filler. Good advice! With that in mind, I was able to cut a page and a half of useless dialogue from this chapter. **UneMouette- **Thank you! Yes, personally I enjoy meandering chapters, which is probably why I write them so much. Thanks for the review! :)

So, yay! Story time!

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT

AGAIN

They spent a while in the market, Monique meandering from stand to stand, dragging Tintin along with her. A myriad of food, clothing, even animals; a lively and colourful world collected up under the map of canvas stands. Tintin mostly tried to stop her from stealing anything.

A long hour passed. The sun was pulled down towards the pavement, making the shadows long and the crowds thin. Market stands began to pack up. Monique produced a small melon from nowhere and they sat on a bench to enjoy it, Monique cutting a slice for herself and then one for Tintin. It was in this fashion that they finished the whole fruit with only a little shame, on Tintin's part; their elbows resting on their knees to let the juice drip from their chins onto the concrete.

Tintin couldn't help but marvel at the serenity with which they had whiled away the early evening. He was working on a case, in a crowded area, yet not a single gangster had tried to knock him out yet. He couldn't help looking over his shoulder, watching for men with hands in their pockets, for shadows around the corner. They were the instincts he could never turn off. Relaxation was impossible.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Monique, wiping the last trace of juice from her lips. He hadn't noticed that she'd been watching him closely.

"Oh, just... thinking how it's amazing no one's tried to kill me in the entire week I've been working on this story, actually." Tintin hadn't really meant to share what was on his mind, but it just kind of came out. Something in the way Monique looked at him, like she was genuinely interested in what he had to say. For once.

"People try to kill you a lot?" She raised her eyebrows.

"Yes, if I'm getting too close to the answer. That's how I know I'm hot on the trail, if someone's after me." Tintin lifted one side of his mouth without humour. It was too true to be funny.

"So you do this kind of thing often, chasing after rebel groups?"

"Oh, yes. All the time."

"Don't you get scared?"

Tintin stopped. This was a strange question. Monique seemed to be in the habit of asking strange questions.

"I... suppose. But not really. I know I'll get there in the end."

"How?"

"I just will. I always do." Tintin stroked the top of Snowy's head thoughtfully.

Monique nodded and looked away. After a moment, she turned back and said, "Do you think someone's after us right now?"

"No, I've been keeping a lookout all afternoon. We're safe."

"That's good. For them. They cross paths with me, and they'll end up spitting out their teeth like breath mints." She smirked. Tintin chuckled and shook his head.

They made their way towards the station, though it was still twenty five minutes until the train would leave. A few blocks down, music floated their direction, lively, singing trumpets carried on the wind. Monique's eyes lit up, and without a word she skipped ahead to find the source. Tintin quickened his pace to catch up with her, and the trio peered around the corner to the street beyond.

A sort of night festival light up the block. People danced before a makeshift stage, the band filling the night with the chaotic harmony of American swing music, Latin-style. The beat flew from the drums, the dancers all moving their feet in time.

Monique grinned. "Let's go dance!"

"Oh no, let's not-"

"It'll be fun! Come on!" She grabbed his hand and pulled him off towards the crowd.

Strings of brilliant white lights hung from the edges of the stage, casting their glow onto the faces of the dancers. The crowd was huge, noisy, joyous. Laughter and talk fell into the overpowering sound of the music and were carried away into the darkening night.

"Isn't it wonderful?"

They stood at the edge of the dance floor, Monique in rapture and Tintin feeling very much like he wanted to be somewhere else. Snowy imagined it might be fun to run between all those moving legs, and see if he could get to the other side without being kicked.

"I'm not much of a dancer..." Tintin rubbed his neck.

"Oh, but this is a terrific song. Come on!" Monique shrugged her bag off her shoulder and tossed it by where Snowy was sitting. "I can trust you to look after that," she said to the dog. Then she grabbed Tintin's hand and tugged him onto the dance floor. He must have looked pretty sceptical, because Monique rolled her eyes.

"Don't be such a stick in the mud. It's easy, just copy what everyone else is doing."

She imitated the twisting movement of traditional Latin dance, swaying her hips and moving her feet in a box step-like rhythm. "Go on, try it!" she said.

Tintin looked around. All the male dancers seemed to be blending the swinging style of current American dancing with the swish of Brazilian music. He could feel the beat and the bouncy flow of the trumpets. He shrugged, thought _what have I got to lose,_ and sort of moved his feet.

Monique laughed and, as the song picked up, began her own version of the Charleston, snapping her fingers. Tintin copied her, and somehow also caught her infectious laugh. In a burst of inspiration, he grabbed her hands in his, promptly letting go of one hand to twirl her around at arm's length. Then he pulled her back to him and dipped her down towards the ground. It was a move pulled from a film he'd seen somewhere, he couldn't remember, and he felt an instant rush of self consciousness. That had probably looked ridiculous. Snowy snorted and lay down.

"Where did that come from?" Monique raised an eyebrow, sounding as if she was trying to suppress a snort.

"I don't know!" Tintin shrugged, and couldn't help but laugh.

"Well, you're a natural. Kind of." She grinned.

The next few songs whirled past; with drums, trumpets, sweaty bodies barely avoiding collision. Though Tintin tripped over his own feet countless times, he, surprisingly, laughed just as much. Monique bit her tongue and kept from making any comments on his horrible dancing, which was also surprising. She did try to teach him the jitterbug, with nearly disastrous results. Tintin almost fell backwards onto the floor, but Monique caught his hands and pulled him upright at the last second. She looked into his bright red face and burst out laughing. Tintin rolled his eyes and tried to suppress a smile.

After the jitterbug song, the band announced they were taking a quick break. The atmosphere of the floor lightened as couples escaped to nearby benches and drink stands, allowing cool night air to surround Tintin and Monique. They were among the few people remaining on the floor. Tintin noted that both of his hands were still intertwined with hers and she was making no move to let go.

"See? I told you this would be fun." Monique was breathless, eyes shining.

"You were right," said Tintin. He slowly pulled his hands out of hers. Monique looked down and released her fingers, cheeks flushing pink. Tintin cleared his throat.

"We ought to be getting to our train..." He glanced at his watch.

"Just one more song? Please?" Monique put her fingers over the face of his watch and pulled his wrist away.

"Well..."

"Hey, this is a nice watch," Monique said. Tintin realised that his wrist was bare, then looked up and saw that she had his watch in her hands. _How did she..._

"Give it back!" Tintin reached for it.

Monique dangled it away from him. "Not until you say yes, Mr. Ace Reporter. One more song..."

Tintin groaned. "Alright, _fine. _One more. Now will you please give me my watch back?"

Monique smiled triumphantly and dropped it into his palm. Tintin shook his head as he cinched it around his wrist.

The band was back to their instruments and preparing for the next song. One of the trumpet players said something into the microphone with a knowing smile and a wink. Between the speed of his Portuguese and his low tenor, it was impossible to tell what he said, but Tintin's stomach dropped in vague fear. Dancers made their way back onto the floor. Only couples, Tintin noticed, gazing at each other with dreamy eyes. _Oh no..._

A single trumpet began to sing, joined soon after by a guitar, as the drums dropped into a slow, gentle beat. Monique grinned, looking at Tintin in the amused way one waits for the other's response. _Of course this is the song they play right now, _he thought, the vague fear turning into a sinking dread. _But it's too late for escape..._

Monique guided Tintin's right hand to her waist and took his left hand in hers, then draped her other hand over his shoulder. She swayed to the song, moving her feet one step forward and one step back, then to the side. Tintin tried to focus on her foot movements, and didn't notice that his hand was drifting away from her waist to hover in the air beside her until she pursed her lips at him and directed his hand back to her waist. Tintin swallowed and left it there.

_It's strange, _he thought, _to be moving so slow for once in my life, yet my heart is beating so fast._

"Again," she whispered.

"Hm?" Tintin was preoccupied with not stepping on her feet.

"The song. It's called 'Again'... the trumpet is playing where the words should be..." Monique rested her head on Tintin's shoulder and sighed. He could feel her warm breath through his shirt. It spread like sunlight through his chest and shoulders, creeping up his neck to flush his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He swallowed again and tried to slow his pulse, thinking, _you're being foolish, Tintin, what's there to get so nervous about?_

He found himself fighting a smile. He had no idea being this nervous could feel so... well, nice. The song went on, the trumpet curling its silver ribbon of melody into the night. Tintin felt the sudden urge to hum along, but didn't, and closed his eyes as he began to trust his feet wouldn't start falling over each other.

He snapped his eyes open again when a screech of microphone feedback cut the music, and the moment dissolved so quickly it might never have been there in the first place. Heads turned to the stage to see four men in police uniforms, one holding the microphone with an apologetic expression. Tintin and Monique let go of each other, exchanging glances. The policeman tapped the microphone.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have an important public announcement. A short while ago, there was an attack on the embassy building," he said in Portuguese. The murmur of the crowd had to be quelled before he could continue. "An attempted bombing, aimed at Argentinean politician Rico Suave, has injured several officials and caused some damage. The perpetrators are the Mapaches, the terrorist group from Argentina, as they were seen escaping the scene of the crime. Police have not yet been able to secure this area, so until then no large congregations are permitted. Temporary evacuation is encouraged. Thank you, we apologise, and have a nice evening."

People began clearing the dance floor, murmuring to each other. Tintin and Monique remained where they were for a moment, both attempting to comprehend the announcement. Snatches of translated phrases floated through Tintin's mind; _the Mapaches... bombing a building... area not yet secured...?_

But he'd understood enough to know they had to get out of there, and fast.

Mind spinning, he led Monique away from the dispersing festival and motioned for Snowy to follow them along the sidewalk towards the train station. Monique grabbed her bag and put it on her shoulder slowly, eyes blank and distant. Tintin felt the need to say something.

"I don't know what this means for us exactly, but the Mapaches must be up to something and it doesn't sound good." He checked his watch. "It's eight twenty-eight. We'll be right on time for our train, and I must say I'm not at all sorry to be leaving Tucurui..." he trailed off as he looked up at the station's platform ahead of them.

Every inch of concrete within a fifty foot radius of the station had become thick with people, jockeying for tickets or waiting to board the train itself. Tintin dove into the throng, at once thanking his skills of crowd weaving acquired from press conferences. Snowy stuck to his master's heels, withdrawing his paws from stomping shoes. Tintin felt someone grab his sleeve, and looked back to see Monique. She bit her lip.

"I don't want to lose you," she said.

"Don't worry. Here." He took her hand in his and turned back to the crowd ahead, taking a moment to locate their destination, the train's door, through a crack in the ever-shifting shoulders at his eye level. All around them the crowd clouded the sky in a buzz of panicked voices, elbows jamming into sides, the wails of children.

A man wriggled past Tintin and turned back to look over his shoulder. He had a strong jaw dusted with grey stubble, by his smooth fair skin he looked about thirty. His eyes glinted from underneath the brim of the black hat tilted down over his stoic face. As he passed, a strong wave of musky cologne hit Tintin's nose, but it disappeared as he melted into the crowd ahead.

The trio reached the train at last, bursting up into late evening air on the steel steps. Tintin handed over their tickets and began the search for an empty compartment, no easy feat in such a crowd.

The most vacant one they came upon was already crammed, barely enough space left for Monique to squeeze in beside Tintin and a tall bearded man shuffling through his briefcase.

She held Snowy on her lap, though he wriggled in her grasp, eager to roam and investigate all the interesting people around them. Tintin tried to ignore the claustrophobic atmosphere in the compartment and focus.

_Who is that man? _he thought, furrowing his brow. _Why does he seem so familiar? _The face he'd caught only a glimpse of scratched at the back of his mind, grasping at a memory he couldn't quite recall. The musky scent of the man's cologne had caused a familiar itch in Tintin's nose. He thought, for no reason, of the note that had started him on this case in the first place. _The note... The note! _Tintin leapt to his feet.

"Great snakes! It's him!" he burst, punching his finger into the air. The other passengers drew back in alarm. He blushed and stammered, "Er... sorry about that, I just... remembered something. Sorry," he sat back down, his mind whirring. Monique raised her eyebrows at him.

He turned to her. "Monique, when you were in the Mapache's secret hideout... did you by any chance _smell_ anything of note?"

"No... wait, now that I think about it... yes! Yes, someone had a really strong cologne, something with cinnamon in it. I remember now, it almost made me sneeze."

"That's it, then! Macarthur is the man I bumped into in Buenos Aires, in the marketplace, when he dropped a coded note about the meeting he was about to attend. He wears strong musky cologne. And he's on _this train!_"

The businessman beside him gave Tintin a pointed glare.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Macarthur's on the train?" Monique looked suddenly nervous. "What are we going to do?"

"We'll track him down, of course," said Tintin. "This could lead to a real breakthrough on the case. What extraordinary luck!"

"I think that would be a very bad idea," Monique said.

Tintin cocked an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Uh... um... we'll give ourselves away, won't we?"

"Not unless we act like complete dolts, we won't. We'll just find his compartment, make up some excuse about losing something in there, and do a bit of snooping. Works every time."

"I still say it's a bad idea. It sounds too risky."

"_You _think it sounds too risky? Why do I find that hard to believe?" Tintin leaned closer towards her. "What aren't you telling me, Monique?"

She shook her head. "Nothing!"

"Is there any way Macarthur could've seen you when you were sneaking around the Mapaches hideout?"

"No."

"Well, then, let's get on with it. Here, Snowy." Tintin fished his wallet from his pocket and pulled out the note from Buenos Aires. He sniffed it and smiled. "Impressive. Still got a bit of the scent." He held it out to Snowy, who gave it a few curious sniffs. "Snowy, I want you to find this man." The dog's ears lifted. "Yes, a man who smells like this."

Snowy gave a little hop and barked, much to the annoyance of the other passengers. Tintin shushed him. "No, no barking. Just smelling."

Tintin and Monique followed Snowy out of the compartment. The terrier led them along the corridor with his nose to the carpet, ears pointed forward.

"How is that piece of paper going to help us find Macarthur?" Monique asked.

"It holds his scent. When I bumped into him in Buenos Aires, entirely by chance, it fell out of his pocket and I picked it up."

Snowy stopped still and turned to an open compartment. He was about to bark, Tintin could tell, so he said quickly, "Good boy!" Snowy drew up his chest.

Tintin turned to Monique. "Alright, my name is Arnold, you're June, and... you lost an earring."

"I don't have my ears pierced-"

"Both earrings, then." Tintin walked into the compartment, leaving Monique no choice but to follow him in. Among the Brazilians who blinked back at them, a young, fair-skinned man stood out. _Macarthur._

"Pardon me, but June lost... er, something in here," Tintin said, his Portuguese failing on the word 'earrings'. "Can we look?"

The passengers nodded and murmured in compliance. Macarthur made no objection either. Tintin got down on his hands and knees, running his fingers underneath the seats. Monique followed suit.

"I was sitting right here..." She adopted her character, crawling over to where Macarthur sat. He looked down at her and raised his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry," he said with barely suppressed disdain, "...what did you say you lost?"

"A pair of earrings."

"You lost _both _earrings?"

"Erm...yes." Monique turned her face away from him and went to look nearby while Tintin ran his hands along the divide in the cushion beside Macarthur. Between Macarthur and Tintin was the man's leather briefcase, open. He could see the tip of a thick white paper, an envelope perhaps, just poking out.

Macarthur watched Monique search for a few moments longer, then turned back to glance at his briefcase. Tintin, who'd had his fingers outstretched towards the envelope, turned away quickly and pretended he'd been searching along the top of the seat cushions. Macarthur didn't seem to have noticed. He turned back to Monique.

"Funny that you should be looking for a pair of earrings... when you're ears aren't even pierced."

Tintin winced. _Nothing gets past this fellow._

Monique was stunned for a moment, but she recovered. "They're clip on."

Macarthur nodded. "Ah."

Another moment passed. Tintin was so close to the envelope... _Keep talking! _he thought.

"You know, _June_, you look very familiar," Macarthur said, still addressing Monique. Tintin felt a flicker of concern at this, but didn't stop.

"I do?"

"Yes... have we met before?" Macarthur asked.

Tintin got hold of the envelope by his fingertips and, slow as he could, began to tug it free from the briefcase... it was halfway out...

"I don't think so," Monique said firmly.

"Perhaps you have one of those faces." Macarthur sounded like he didn't believe this. Tintin snuck the envelope behind his back. _Success, _he thought. _And not a moment too soon._

"Well, June, it looks like they aren't here," he said. Monique sprang upright and faked a grimace.

"Darn it," she said. "We better get back to our seats, then."

Tintin nodded. "Sorry, everyone. Goodbye," he said in Portuguese to the group at large. He manoeuvred his way to the door, keeping his front to Macarthur, and slipped out. Monique and Snowy joined him in the hall.

They didn't talk until they were back safe in their seats. Tintin opened the envelope, noted it had already been opened once, and pulled out a stack of papers typed in thick black font.

"What is it?" Monique peered over.

Tintin raised his eyebrows as he thumbed through. "It's all German."

"Neat!" Monique snatched the entire stack out of his hands and flipped through it. "Can you read German?"

"Maybe if I got a more than a second's glance at it." Tintin took the papers back from Monique and ignored her face as he squinted at the words. He'd never liked the language much, and spoke very little, but could probably read it if he dredged up enough Dutch from the caverns of his memory. Dutch and German were similar enough, he thought, to make out a phrase here or there. He'd fill in the rest himself.

Tintin shoved the papers back into their envelope and stood up. "Let's go to the dining car. Come along, Snowy."

"Gee, this might be the first time you've ever suggested we eat. Not that I'm complaining, mind you," said Monique as she followed him down the corridor, slinging her bag back over her shoulder. Tintin guessed she didn't trust their fellow passengers enough to leave it in the compartment. They put their hands against the windows and walls to either side of them as the train shifted from side to side, rattling on through a black nightscape.

Tintin frowned. "No, there was... that other time..." He could almost feel Monique's expression on the back of his neck. "Anyway, you can get something, but I'm not really going to eat. I need the light, and hopefully the quiet, to read some of this letter."

The dining car certainly had light. Lanterns hung above each table and cast their golden glow over the faces of the diners. Tintin's hope of quiet, however, disappeared in the din of conversation. He scanned for an empty table, and settling on one near the back, stepped up to the uniformed waitress.

"Table for two?" she asked, pulling menus out of thin air. Tintin nodded, and she led them back to seat them. Monique immediately began scanning the items with hungry eyes. Tintin opened the envelope and spread the papers out in front of him. Bathed in lamplight, the German seemed more comprehensible, and he tackled the first sentence.

Half an hour later, he had all but given up on the first paragraph entirely save one phrase which seemed to say "of your great assistance" and moved onto the next. He'd quite forgotten about Monique, until the train gave an unexpected jolt and a wave of water sprang up out of her glass to land all across the first page. She swallowed a mouthful of stew and moved the glass back a fraction of an inch. "Sorry."

Tintin frowned slightly, and leaned back in his chair. "It's alright. I'm not making any progress anyway. German really is a terrible language."

"I've always thought it sounded fierce," said Monique, shoving another spoonful of stew in her mouth. "Strong language for a strong country."

Tintin raised an eyebrow. "Mm. Not strong enough for the Allies, though, right?"

Monique snapped her head up and swallowed. "That's what you think."

He sat forward, narrowing his eyes. "You're... you're for the Germans?"

"Of course." She took a sip of water. Tintin tried not to feel as though he'd just been punched.

"You... that's... Look, you're American, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah, I guess. I don't know."

"Then... don't you know anything about the terrible threat Hitler poses to the civilised world as we know it? That this war means the difference between life and death for millions of minorities, the havoc wreaked all across Europe? It's Germany. The deaths of... of _millions, _it's because of Hitler." For all his eloquence in articles on the subject, Tintin found himself struggling to describe the extent of Germany's crimes against humanity. He couldn't believe that he was sitting across the table from a Nazi sympathiser, who'd saved his life, whom he'd _danced _with...

Monique blinked at him. "What? No. I didn't know that." She furrowed her brows. "You're not making this up, are you?"

"Making this _up? _How could I possibly be..._"_ Tintin felt the jump in his voice, and he settled into his chair, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Monique. I don't know how to pose this question politely, but where have you _been _for the last, oh, five years?"

Monique studied her stew, drawing little circles in the broth with her spoon. She shrugged. "I... haven't really been paying attention, I guess."

"I'll say you haven't." Tintin let out his breath again, and looked around. Conversation continued to flit around them. Monique, on the other hand, looked a little shell-shocked and very red in the face. Tintin felt bad and opened his mouth to apologise, before he glanced up at the mirror hanging above the door at the back of the car.

It was horizontal, long and rectangular, angled so you could see anyone near the front entrance. In the reflection, Tintin had just caught sight of two men; tan, with fierce expressions, their eyes scanning over the car. They were looking for more than just empty seats. Tintin suddenly made the connection – they were a pair from Macarthur's compartment. One of them, the shorter one, leaned over to the waitress to ask her something. She looked confused.

Tintin felt something click in his mind. _They're looking for us._

* * *

Oh, snap. It's about to get real. Don't worry, the dancing is the last break they'll have for a couple chapters to come. So, thoughts? Reviews are wonderful! But, regardless, thanks for reading this far. :) And get ready for some action! ;D


	9. Unwelcoming Committee

I'm sure you want to get right into this chapter (hopefully ;P) so I'll be brief - just a quick yet heartfelt thanks for all the follows, favourites, and reviews this story has received so far! :'D It's overwhelming, how happy sharing your story with others makes you feel. It might have been safer, letting it gather dust on my hard drive while I read and reviewed and dreamed about someday putting it on the site, but actually going ahead and posting is the best decision I've ever made. You guys are so amazing. Thank you. :)

*Ahem* Alright, mushy moment over. Heeere we go!

* * *

CHAPTER NINE

UNWELCOMING COMMITTEE

Tintin looked away from the mirror to Monique, still playing with her stew, wearing a stoic, ashamed expression. _There are two men looking for us. I'm turned away from them, but surely they'll recognise her..._

"Get under the table," Tintin told her, as if continuing a conversation. Monique looked up at him in alarm.

"What?"

"Just do it. Be quick but quiet, don't draw attention to yourself."

"What, I... What..." she was murmuring, watching Tintin with wary eyes as she slid from her chair underneath the table, and clung to the bolted down leg. Tintin looked back up at the mirror. The men from Macarthur's compartment were still talking to the waitress. She looked angry now, as they grew more insistent...

Tintin pulled his attention away towards Monique. Snowy looked up at him from beside his chair, as if to ask '_what's she doing down here?' _He could hear her babbling from under the tablecloth near his leg.

"Look, um, Tintin, if this is about the Germany thing I promise to learn more about it, pick up a newspaper or something-"

"Quiet," he hissed. "No, no. There are two men who are looking for us. I'm trying to think of a way to..." he trailed off, looking up to the mirror again. The pair had gotten past the waitress and scanned the car, murmuring to each other. Tintin swallowed the urge to turn around.

"Monique, can you see-"

"I see them," she said quietly.

"Good." Tintin's mind was racing. "Could you take on one of those men on your own?"

"Yes..."

"Good," he said again. "But if this works, you won't have to. When they come to our table, I want you to spring out and grab one by the ankle. Surprise him. Something. And while he's surprised, I'll catch him off guard and hopefully the other one, too."

He swept the papers into their envelope and slipped it under the table to Monique. "Keep this. I want you to run, at your first chance, out the front door of the car. I'll hold them off as best I can, but if one gets away he'll come after you. Be ready. Just keep the envelope, whatever you do."

Not half a second after he'd finished speaking, the men stood before their table.

_"Now," _Tintin whispered.

He leapt up from his chair, as the taller thug gave a jump, looking down at his feet in one split-second, fatal mistake. Tintin's fist connected with his jaw, and he swore he could hear the crack.

Snowy had caught onto the idea and sunk his teeth into the ankle of the second thug, just as he lobbed an arm towards Tintin, who blocked the punch and threw one in return. At the same moment he kicked out with his left foot to catch the taller man in the stomach, and threw him backwards onto the table of some very surprised diners.

Chunks of food went flying, wine spread like blood over the white tablecloth. In the brief commotion, Tintin saw a figure dart from the ground upwards and bound through the car, white envelope clutched in her fist. He had to admit, she was fast.

Good thing, too, because the shorter thug was after her as soon as she'd whipped past. Tintin didn't have much time to consider this, because the other was on him even quicker, and he had scarce a moment to throw a punch before he heard shouting and felt a hand on his shoulder. Some man in a black uniform had a firm grip, and by his voice was not at all happy, so Tintin spun away from him and took this opportunity to dash out through the other door into the next car.

As he pounded down the gently swaying corridors of another passenger car with Snowy panting at his heels, Tintin realised he didn't have much of an idea how he and Monique would meet up again. A train was one long, narrow tunnel, with a beginning and an end but no other exits he could think of. Except the roof, but that was an option he'd explored before and would much rather avoid if possible.

He became aware of thundering footsteps echoing his own, much too close behind. Tintin grimaced and picked up his pace, the end of the car nearing. A doorman stood there, who frowned and opened his mouth, before Tintin swung the door open with a "Sorry!" and leapt out onto the dark balcony.

_What to do now?_ He had four seconds before the thug joined him on the small platform. He felt the train suddenly slowing underneath him and, confused, turned to make out their surroundings in the golden wash of light ahead. Tall lamps stood at each corner of the platform they were arriving at, and beyond the platform were buildings, cut out of the dark sky.

The door opened.

Tintin jumped off the train.

He landed in thin grass beside the track, rolling up erect before taking off towards the lights of the platform ahead, pausing only to see that Snowy ran beside him. The train lurched and puffed into the station, Tintin faster than it by a long shot. He smirked, and didn't have to look behind him to know that the thug had jumped off right after him.

A hiss filled the air, the long, drawn-out breath of a giant snake, as the train finally came to a stop. The golden light could go no much further than the edge of the platform, and only just caught the grey billows of steam rising up.

Tintin looked up to the faint silhouette of buildings, illuminated in street light, against a black sky. _We're here, _he thought. _We're finally in Belem._

_ What an entrance._

/*/*/*/

Their arrival in Belem, thought Monique, could not have been more timely. The doorman, alarmed by her rush and the angry heavyset man not fifteen feet behind her, had swung the latch up and pushed it open without a single word. The steps swung down and a cement platform, lit up from all four corners by tall golden lamps, stretched empty before her. Such an open space. That was no good at all.

Beside the steps were rungs sticking out from the side of the train. Monique spun and grabbed onto one, to pull herself off the steps and up the dark, imposing face of the carriage. She climbed up the rungs with one hand, as her other held precious cargo. She reached the roof of the train and crouched there, grinning, to look down.

The thug was standing on the platform and looking around with such a befuddled expression Monique had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing aloud. She backed away from the pool of light, into the shadows atop the train, and took advantage of her bird's eye view.

She searched the darkness surrounding the platform for any movement and finally saw him, racing alongside the tracks, coming closer. At first she thought that he must have eluded his pursuer, until she caught sight of the large figure lumbering close behind. The thug on the platform had spotted Tintin at about the same time, and jumped into action. The shadows were too thick, but Monique could just imagine the look on Tintin's face, eyes a little wider, mouth dropped open in surprise, as he realised he was going to get caught in the middle.

Monique looked down at the envelope in her hands. If she ran now, the letter would be safe, whatever it was. Tintin had told her to keep it no matter what, right?

The envelope folded in her hands, and she lifted her shirt to tuck it into the waistband of her shorts. It lay flat against her stomach. Monique dropped her shirt down again, then ran forward.

She half expected to fall off the slick, slightly sloped metal of the roof, but for momentum, or perhaps sheer luck, her feet kept their balance. She skidded to a stop and looked down. Tintin looked up at her, both thugs sprawled on the ground to either side of him. He rubbed his fist, giving a small smile and a shrug.

_Gee, _thought Monique. _He's some reporter._

"Good to see you're well. Come on down," Tintin said as he started to walk towards the platform. "We better get out of here."

"If you say so." Monique walked along the roof until she found another set of rungs. She swung down and landed on the gravel by the tracks, then fell in step besides Tintin and Snowy.

"Do you have the envelope?"

She nodded. "It's safe," she said, then turned to look up ahead of them.

The platform had become teeming with people. The massive crowds that had boarded the train back in Tucurui were now blinking at their new surroundings, spit out of the train to regard the city with wide eyes. The trio dove back into the throng as they reached the platform. It seemed people were hanging about the station as they tried to figure out where to go next, leaning on their luggage and unfolding maps. Tintin scanned the crowd. _Looking for Macarthur, _Monique thought.

"You think he has more men with him?"

Tintin nodded. "Don't stand anywhere for too long. Crowds are good."

"But we can't stay here forever."

"No. We have to get down to the docks. Come on."

Away from the platform, Belem was a much darker place. It crawled with big city nightlife, not too unlike that of Buenos Aires, except the raucous laughter and talk echoing from restaurants was Portuguese, not Spanish. The familiarity of shadows and tall buildings, punctuated by streetlamps, made Monique feel slightly homesick. A few blocks away from the train station, though, and groups scattering the warm sidewalks became much less frequent, the shadows darker, somehow.

They skirted around a group of men in a cloud of cigarette smoke and laughter, giving a rude appraisal of any woman who walked past. Monique knew what they were thinking, from their wandering eyes and dirty smiles. At least they reserved judgement on her; she was a bit young yet, she guessed. Or maybe it was the look Tintin gave them.

A block later, Monique turned to him. "Do you know where we're going?"

He frowned and let out his breath through his nose. "Not exactly. If only I could tell which way is the coast..."

"Hello there, are you two looking for something?"

They turned to see four young men walking up to them, one in front, wearing a friendly smile. He had spoken in Spanish. Monique smiled back and opened her mouth to say yes, but Tintin stepped closer to her, putting a hand on her arm.

"No, we're fine-" he started.

Monique spoke up, louder, and stepped forward. "Yes, actually, we're looking for the docks. Can you tell us how to get there?"

The man nodded. "It's not far. We'll walk you there. Not very safe, wandering around this part of town so late." He was young and had an amiable way of speaking. If he was a street rat, he was a very clean shaven one. He lifted an arm to point down the street. "This way."

Tintin gave Monique a look, as if he were trying to tell her something without speaking aloud, but she ignored him and picked up her pace a bit to talk with their newfound guide.

"So," he began, turning to her. "What brings you to the docks so late? Not to sightsee, I'm guessing."

"No..." She shook her head, pausing as she tried to think of what to say. "Meeting a friend."

"Ah. Escaping all that trouble in Tucurui, are you? Nasty business." He clicked his tongue.

"Kind of," said Monique. She was starting to get a funny feeling, spreading from her stomach outward. There was something about the man that seemed out-of-place in this city, and vaguely familiar to her... yet she was certain she'd never met him before.

"I'm sorry," she began, "but where are you from? Your accent."

He gave her a strange look and stopped. It was in that moment, looking into his dark eyes, that Monique realised he was not Brazilian. He had spoken in Spanish since first walking up to them.

"I'm from Argentina," he said, still wearing that amicable smile.

The strange feeling spread to her heart, which began to beat faster. She backed up slightly.

"Monique-" she heard Tintin say, before a crack echoed through the all-too-empty street. Panic was the last thing she felt, hairs bristling at the nape of her neck, when something hard and fast struck the back of her head. A burst of light; she almost had the time to gasp, before falling, and the world was lost to darkness.

* * *

Uh, oh! Looks like they're in trouble now! Whatever will happen when our intrepid heroes wake up? Wow, okay, never mind. I just can't do the cute tv announcer "find out in the next episode of..." thing. :P Sooo um... I was going to say something. Oh yeah! Pretty please review, especially if you've got some feedback or constructive criticism for me. I welcome it with open arms! And praise is nice, too, but I'm not gonna ask for the moon. And don't touch that dial, folks, 'cause we'll be right back! *cheesy grin* Actually, that was a lie. Final exams are coming up and I have a feeling fan fiction is going to fall by the wayside, unfortunately. So who knows when my next update will be? Not even me! Anyways, pardon me, but I've got an episode of Downton Abbey to watch now. You should review, and then go watch Downton Abbey because it's really good. ;) Tata for now!


	10. Porto de Belem

I'm back! Whew, it's good be posting again. Didja miss me? ;) Because I sure missed you all! At least I can now say I survived the first semestre of the school year. WOOHOO! *victory dance* But the crazy week didn't end with my exams. All day yesterday I was at an acting competition against thespians from other schools in my region of my state - insane, yet insanely fun. The best part is that my friend and I (we did a scene together) tied with another duo for first in our category. Which means we're moving on to the Statewide competition! :D So, anyway, that's my news. Really quickly: **The Inner Titan- **Your review really made me smile. :) What a lovely compliment, thank you! Making Monique a Mary Sue was one of my biggest worries, so hearing that is very reassuring. And thanks for the favourite!

Anything else? Nope? Alright then, cue chapter ten!

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CHAPTER TEN

PORTO DE BELEM

Half of her was numb with cold, the other half warm. It took Monique a long moment to figure that out, lying there_, wherever that was_, with her eyes glued shut. Her head, too; that was the second thing she felt. She let out a groan. Over all of her aching body, her head was the worst. It seemed a vessel of pain and nothing else, hanging too heavy from her neck.

Her lower half was spread out across a floor that seemed to suck the heat right out of her legs. Her upper half lay on something warm and soft, gently rising and falling, a dull rhythm thudding within. She squeezed her eyes tighter closed and snuggled into the strange pillow, hoping to fall back asleep and ignore the pain in her head.

She snapped her eyes open. It was not, in fact, a pillow, but Tintin's chest.

_Gross!_ That was Monique's first coherent thought, as she wriggled away from him and sat up, sleep clearing quickly from her mind. She discovered her wrists were bound behind her back with thick scratchy rope. So were her ankles. _Oh, marvellous._

_All because I asked that 'fella for directions... _The last events she could remember came back to her like a lightning bolt, snapping through her throbbing head.

She blinked and took a deep breath, then shifted to examine their surroundings. As she did, the floor rocked beneath her. This was confusing at first, until she saw that the room was small, with steel walls broken only by a single porthole on the wall to her right and a bolted door on the wall to her left. Faint morning light shone in through the porthole.

They were on a boat of some kind, but they weren't moving, which was good. _At least we made it to the port, _thought Monique. Then she saw that the strange lump by the door was her messenger bag, contents strewn in a wave across the floor. This was to be expected, but it made her angry all the same.

She turned and regarded the boy beside her, at once wishing he were awake. Tintin slept with his mouth open, brow slightly wrinkled, as if he were having a bad dream. He lay utterly still. Monique stared at him ferociously. _Wake up, Wonder Boy, _she thought.

When telepathy failed to work, Monique had to kick him. With bound ankles, however, this took more effort than she thought.

"Tintin." A second kick. "Wake up!"

He groaned, and turned on his side. His eyelids fluttered open.

"Mm... oh." He saw Monique, then blinked and sat up fast. He tried his arms and legs and, finding both to be bound just like hers, regarded the room with a cavalier expression.

"Ah." He frowned. "I knew we shouldn't have asked for directions."

"I'm sorry!" Monique didn't sound so sorry, and she knew it. "He seemed nice."

"I wonder where Snowy is. Hopefully he's alright." said Tintin. He thought for a moment, then sighed. "And now we've lost the envelope."

Monique shifted. There was definitely something in the waistband of her shorts. It was the envelope! She remembered putting it there, atop the train. The thugs must have been decent enough not to lift her shirt in their search. "No, I have it! Tucked into my shorts," she said.

"Oh. Well, that's something."

"So... what are we gonna do?"

Tintin shrugged. "Usually something comes to me. Shame the room is mostly empty. Maybe those boxes, in the corner there, have something," he said, almost to himself, as he looked around. His eyes fell upon Monique's messenger bag, and he perked up. "Ah!" He began the slow process of scooting over towards it.

Monique almost smiled at how silly he looked. "They'll have taken anything valuable," she said instead.

Tintin didn't respond, examining the scattered objects. He scooted over a bit more, to the bag itself, and angled his back to it so he could reach inside and dig around.

"Hey!" Monique frowned. "You can't just-"

She stopped when he broke into a dimpled smile. He pulled something out of the bag.

"They obviously didn't search very _well_." He wriggled forwards an inch to fiddle with whatever was in his hands. "Your pocketknife. It was tucked away. I knew you had one."

"Oh," Monique said, remembering now. "Yeah. That's swell."

When he had cut through their bonds, she stretched, got up and went over to her bag, shoving everything back inside. The only item she could identify as missing was the gun, of course. Her notebook and pencil, comb, twine, and jacket had survived.

She slung it back in its rightful place over her shoulder, and felt much better for it. Armed with her bag, she could take on anything.

Tintin was looking at the porthole. It was hinged, but locked. The lock seemed to be an afterthought, just a key operated box with a latch secured through two holes in the iron handle. Monique watched him dig in his pocket for a pen, which he began to take apart. She grew more curious. Part of the pen snapped off and revealed its true nature as a tiny screwdriver.

"That's nifty. How'd you find a pen like that?"

Tintin gave her a small smile. He jammed the screwdriver-pen-thing into the lock, fiddling for a moment. "I made it myself. There!" The lock fell open. The porthole swung up, and a burst of salty wind rushed in. Tintin and Monique dragged a box over, then stood on tiptoe side by side to peer out.

All was quiet and mostly empty; from their vantage point Monique could see a sailing ship and the silhouette of another behind it. Between them and the ships, the dock stuck out into the bay, an unlikely wooden sidewalk. It rocked atop the water maybe 20 feet away from them.

Monique blinked, and saw that the shifting white shape she'd been staring at was a little terrier trotting up and down the dock.

_"Snowy," _Tintin called softly, grinning. The dog continued to pace. Tintin whistled, brief and high-pitched. The sound carried through the crisp air to make Snowy stop and prick his ears. He looked over at the ship and his black eyes seemed to brighten as he barked a greeting.

"No, no," Tintin said in the loudest whisper he could manage, but it was no use. "No, Snowy, _sh-h-h." _The dog quieted some and whined instead, pacing at the edge of the dock as if to jump in. "Stay there," Tintin said to him, then turned to Monique. "May I have the envelope?"

"Oh, sure." She pulled it out from under her shirt and handed it over.

"And your bag, as well?"

"Why? What are you doing?"

He took her bag and tucked the envelope inside, then hefted it up to porthole. "I'm going to toss it to the dock. Don't worry, I can make it."

"No!" Monique lunged forward. "My journal's-"

He gave it a mighty heave.

"...in there," she finished, despondently, watching her bag sail through the damp morning sky. It landed with a dim whump on the deck beside Snowy. She rolled her eyes.

A chorus of shouts echoed from the deck above, men shouting to each other about the bag from nowhere. Monique heard something about 'the prisoners', then commands of "_Va, va!" Go, go!_

She glared at Tintin. "Real smart move, buddy. What'd you do that for?"

"Because we're next." He stepped back and gestured to the porthole.

Monique stared at him. "You're kidding."

"Sorry, but there's no time for second thoughts. They'll be here any moment. Just jump. I'm right behind you."

"I'll help you up. Here." Tintin knelt and interlocked his fingers into a step. Monique put one foot up and grabbed onto the frame. It was just wide enough for her shoulders. She was going to have to slide out headfirst. She stuck her head out and made a small, embarrassing noise in her throat. It was a twenty foot drop at least, the side of the boat like a sheer cliff face. With one heave of her shoulders, Monique pulled herself halfway out of the porthole, stomach balancing on the edge of the frame.

Thumping came from the hallway beyond the door, and loud voices. "Go on!" Tintin's voice was tight with effort and urgency.

"Wait!" Monique said suddenly, but the wind seemed to suck her voice away. It felt as if her heart was going to climb up and jump by itself. "I can't-"

_I can't swim, _she was about to say, but her voice died in her throat, and she held back a shriek as the boat shifted. Within a fraction of a second, the delicate equilibrium between her and the porthole's frame was upset. She found herself reaching out to grab at nothing as she slipped into open air.

Half a breath.

That was all she could snatch from the burst of wind that surrounded her.

She struck the water, and all down her side the cold pulled until it swallowed her up whole. Above and below, taking each of her arms. A long moment went past before Monique realised if she didn't move, the sea would keep dragging her down. She struggled, kicking as hard as she could, arms outstretched, reaching up to the surface. It glittered like the shards of a million diamonds. Water tugged at her lungs, a fire spreading out to her eyes and throat.

Then she could feel a dull ice feeling begin to spread throughout her. Her mind seemed to slow down. She stopped struggling.

Monique felt something wrap around her waist. It was stronger and warmer than the sea. She felt it struggle with the water, fighting for her, and it wasn't until the surface broke that she realised they'd won.

She opened her mouth and let her lungs fill with blessed air, water streaming down her face. The force, still wrapped tightly around her, began to pull her back, dragging her into the shadow of the boat, and didn't stop until they were right up against the steel side.

"Where are they? Where'd they go?" A voice came from the porthole above and Monique didn't have to look up to know the speaker had stuck their head out and was searching the water for movement. Tintin struggled to pull her tighter against his chest, at the same time slowing his feet so they sank a little further down.

"Gone." The man cursed, and more conversation was lost to the wind. The porthole snapped shut.

Tintin let his arms relax their grip as he began speaking to her, low and close. "What happened? You just- you didn't-"

"Don't let go!" Her voice came fast and breathless. "Don't let go. I can't swim."

She realised she was shaking. Tintin pulled her back into him.

"That might have been a good thing to tell me before I pushed you into the ocean, don't you think? Anything else, life threatening information, you've been withholding?" His voice was none too steady either. "_Mon dieu_," he added in a reverent murmur.

"I'm sorry. I knew there was something about the water, but I didn't remember until it was too late," Monique kept talking, as if hearing her own voice might slow her heart. It did.

"Oh, well. What does it matter? You're not drowned. That's all that matters to me right now." Tintin's breath was laboured, warm air against the back of her neck. Monique felt his legs kicking mechanically behind her to hold both of them up. Now she understood what treading water meant. It felt like walking an invisible line between the sky and the ocean.

"They're going to be watching for us," he said. "We can't swim out into the open..." he shifted and released his grip on Monique. She kept tight hold of his arms. "Here," he said, "go behind me and put your arms around my neck."

"You can swim while dragging me along?"

"Yes, you're very light."

Monique wrapped her arms around his neck and frowned. _If only I could swim, _she thought. _Then I wouldn't have to be such a damsel in distress._

They sliced through the water, like a blade through velvet, down along the shadow of the boat's massive steel side. She looked up to the deck, sure there were men up there watching for them, but couldn't see anything for the curve of the metal. _If we can't see them, they can't see us, right? _She leaned forward to whisper in Tintin's ear.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm using the shadow to our advantage. From the prow we can slip underneath the dock, and move unseen from there." His breath was heavy, but he still kept both of them up fine, swimming at a reasonable pace. "Once we're far enough away from the ship, we'll walk about on the dock and find the Captain."

Monique looked up again, searching the hull for identification. "It doesn't have a name."

"No, I imagine not," Tintin murmured, like it was obvious. He stretched his arms out and in the span of a breath crossed the space between the prow and the dock, then pulled Monique under. She felt her throat fill with water. For one terrifying moment there was no surface, and then they came up to air again in the shade of the dock above them. She spat water and heaved a breath.

"You c-could've warned me," she coughed.

"Sorry," said Tintin. Stripes of light fell on the water through the thin slats in the dock. With only a foot of space to breathe, they made slow progress down the dock. Monique had to shut her eyes, and pretend that the sky was open above them, anything rather than focus on the fact that they were trapped.

A loud bark sounded right above her head, and Monique snapped her eyes open.

"Snowy!" Tintin burst, and she could hear his grin though she couldn't see it. She looked up and could make out a paw through the slats, as well a lump of fabric that could only be her messenger bag.

"You carried the bag! Good boy." Snowy barked again. Tintin shushed him, and slowed his tread to sink in the water. Loud footsteps vibrated the boards, and they were coming closer. Monique held her breath.

"What've you got there, Snowy? Some poor sap's bag?" A voice came from above, rolling his 'r's in the grumble of an older man. Tintin laughed, which surprised Monique so much she thought for a second it had been someone else. Then he said, "Captain!"

The black boots shifted, blocking the light. "What? Who said that?" Then, cautiously, "Tintin?"

"Below you, Captain. Under the dock."

"What in the..." The man knelt down. "Billions of blue blistering barnacles! Tintin, you crazy fool! Scared me half to death. What in heaven's name're you doin' down there?"

He laughed again, shaking his head. "Good to see you too, Captain. And that's a story I'll have to save for later. For the moment, do stand back up. People might think you're communing with the mermaids." He whispered to Monique, "Duck," and pulled her under the board to emerge under the sky once again on the other side of the dock.

"Speaking of mermaids..." The man looked at Monique, raising an eyebrow. His eyes shone from under the brim of a naval cap. His mouth was hidden within a thick black beard, but Monique didn't think he was smiling. "You got a passenger there, I see."

"Er, yes," said Tintin. "Monique, meet my old friend Captain Haddock. Captain, this is Monique Fronville. My..." he paused. His neck grew hot against her forearms. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for what came next.

"...partner of sorts, on this case."

"I can't swim," she said to the Captain, by way of explaining her position. Then she thought to add, "It's nice to meet you. Finally."

"Mm. Pleasure." the Captain nodded, arms crossed over his dark blue jersey. "So this is the girl, eh?" he said to Tintin with a chuckle. "The one you've been running around with the past week? She must be something, keeping up with you."

Monique smirked and opened her mouth to answer, but Tintin spoke first.

"I'm afraid this conversation will have to wait." He swam over to the edge of the dock and motioned for Monique climb up. "There are some fellows down there," he pointed as he swung himself onto the dock, "who aren't at all happy to see us go. Where is she?"

"Down this way," said the Captain. Monique picked up her bag and hurried after them. She shook out her hair and wrung out her shirt as they walked, wishing it didn't cling so much to her skin. Tintin did the same, brushing water off his shoulders. They left a trail of dripping footprints as they went. _Not good, _Monique thought, and she knew Tintin was thinking the same thing. She looked over her shoulder, but couldn't see the black ship, nor anyone following them. She quickened her pace all the same.

"There she is," the Captain swung an arm out to the ship before them. Tintin came to a halt, and Monique nearly tumbled into him.

When Tintin had said 'yacht', her mind had gone to the elegant, gleaming playthings of the very rich; well-dressed men padding about on the spotless decks, snacking on caviar. She certainly never would've imagined something like this.

She knew nothing about sailing; maybe this sorry-looking hunk of metal ran as fast as anything, but somehow she doubted it. Its size did nothing to make up for the grime and barnacles clinging to its side; once some shade of white, now a sickly grey. Peeling black letters clung to the hull on a hope and a prayer, spelling out _The Marlin._ The cabin sticking out of the debris-strewn deck seemed to sink under its own roof, windows coated with dust. She didn't even want to think about what the inside looked like.

The Captain led them up the questionable walkway, a sort of hybrid between a ladder and stairs which led to the ship's deck. Once they were all aboard, he and Tintin spun the musty levers to pull it back up, each step collapsing into the next.

The three of them turned and surveyed the deck. The Captain beamed. "Welcome to the Marlin. My newest project. What do you think?" He looked at Tintin, and, noting his stunned expression, Monique realised he'd never seen it before either. He brought his fingers to his mouth and shook his head.

"I... I hardly know what to say, it... er..." He thought for a moment. "Bit of a fixer-upper, is she?"

"That's part of the fun of it though, isn't it?" Still smiling, the Captain led the way to the cabin-like structure. One of the creaky doors led to a glass-fronted 'control' room, with a few shelves containing many papers, maps, and nautical instruments lining the back wall. There was a tarnished gold wheel in the centre of the room, beside a wooden one.

"How much did you say you paid for it?" Tintin asked, surveying the room with his hands in his pockets, eyebrow cocked.

"I know what you're thinkin', lad," the Captain set about gathering things, flicking switches on a control panel by the stairs leading down into the belly of the ship, and pulling the lever of the gold wheel up to 'stand by'. "But you've got to think long term, think of it as an investment. Look past the dilapidation and see her _potential."_

"I think we're potentially not going to make it out of this port."

"Hey, I got all the way here, didn't I? Don't be such a doubting Thomas, she runs just fine."

A strange rattling noise echoed up to join the humming far below them. Then everything stopped with a loud clunk.

The Captain frowned. "I better go check on that." He gestured for them to follow him down the stairs. "Don't stand about in front of that window, you might be seen. Speaking of which, who's after you this time?"

"The hired thugs of some businessman, meddler, all-around enigma named Macarthur. We don't know hardly anything about him, nor what he's doing. But if we can get out of here quick enough, we might make it to Saudi Arabia in time to find out."

They reached the hallway of the first lower level, and another stairway the Captain was heading towards suggested it went deeper. Monique guessed the smell of pipe smoke and grease got worse the further you went, and followed them only to the top of the stairwell, where the Captain stopped on the third stair and turned around to face Tintin.

"Mebbe' this is a foolish question, but what does he want with you?"

"Well... we took something of his. A bit rude I suppose, but who knew he'd fret so much over a letter?"

"A letter, eh? How'd you come by that? Picked his pocket?"

"No, not exactly... look, all that matters this very moment is if we can start putting some distance between us and Macarthur as soon as possible."

The Captain stuck his finger up and grinned. "You just leave it all to me, lad. She'll be purring like a kitten in no time." He ambled down the stairs and disappeared, muttering to himself. Tintin rolled his eyes, and let Monique follow along as he went back up through the control room and onto the deck.

The wind had picked up, and it spat a light burst of mist in Monique's face as they picked their way through the litter to the front railing. Looking down on the dock, Monique saw a group of men in uniforms trooping along towards them, looking for someone. They had found the trail of wet footprints.

"Yep, the sooner we leave, the better," she said. Tintin nodded, and they retreated back into the yacht, away from the exposing glare of morning sunlight.

* * *

They've FINALLY reached the Captain! As I wrote this, I even felt relieved myself. So. Starting next chapter, there will be some more digging into Macarthur's plans (concerning the weird letter) and that's where the mystery really begins to unfold... I do hope you'll stick around to see what's in store. And while you're waiting, a review would be lovely! Anything you have to say is valuable and very much appreciated. Until next time - adios! :D


	11. The Marlin

Oh hi there, remember me? XP Yeah, I'm the person who hasn't updated in about a MONTH. Please forgive me! I have been trying so hard to find time to write but I think everyone will agree - Spring is the busiest time of year. All the activities and sports and crap... *sigh* Anyway, I have promised myself I will always be one chapter ahead in my rewriting, so I had to finish Chapter 12 before posting this, even though it's been sitting on my computer the whole time. I really really hope all my readers haven't abandoned me. But if you're reading this, it means you haven't given up yet - THANK YOU! :'D I love you. No, really. With all my heart. :3 And lots of love to my newest followers, including **Soffi . record** ** - so happy to have another reader. :) Rock on!**

Just realised I've never done a disclaimer or whatever. Er... I don't own Tintin or any other Tintin characters in this story. They are property of Moulinsart or something. So don't sue me please! *hides under desk*

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE MARLIN

Back in the yacht, there was nothing to do but wait until the Captain could get the engine working again. Wait and pray that they could leave before Macarthur's men, out trooping up and down the dock, connected the dots and stormed aboard _The Marlin._

Tintin finally found a couple towels in a hall closet. Monique wrapped herself up gratefully, trying not to breathe in too much of the dust. Tintin then went down to help the Captain with the engine, leaving her alone in the galley.

That was when she realised she was starving.

She had a steaming, only slightly burned saucepan of soup waiting for Tintin and the Captain when they came back up, to celebrate a working engine. She was no cook, the soup was courtesy of a can she'd discovered on a rickety shelf. Snowy got a small dish of beef picked out of the soup. It was, in fact, just as they were sitting down that Monique realised she'd done the cooking while the manly men had done the manly mechanical work, and she swallowed her first spoonful with a frown. Then promptly spat it back out and hung her mouth open to let her tongue cool.

After they had covered some distance and the port was no longer visible behind them, Tintin and Monique began to relax. Two bowls of soup each had been consumed, as well as a glass of whiskey in the Captain's case, when Tintin was concluding their story.

"...And that was when I realised Macarthur was on the train. We tracked him down, and got a hold of this." He pulled the envelope from Monique's bag and took the letter out, handing it to the Captain, who raised his eyebrows. "I'm not sure what to make of it," Tintin went on. "I didn't get much time to sift through it, anyway, because then we arrived in Belem and, subsequently, were chased off the train. Monique asked for directions..."

She groaned and rolled her eyes. "Am I ever going to live that down?"

Tintin smiled. "It was only yesterday. And, no. We were kidnapped, and woke up on that black merchant's ship. We escaped, barely, and found you. And here we are." He dropped his spoon into his empty bowl.

The Captain flipped through the letter, before pushing it back to Tintin with a half smile, shaking his head. "It's another of your messes if I ever saw one."

"So I take it you're in, then?" said Tintin.

"How could I possibly refuse? I've already got two wanted thieves on my ship." He groaned good-naturedly. "I'm neck deep in geopolitics at any given time just by _knowing_ you."

Monique cleared her throat. "Sorry to interrupt, but isn't anyone going to show me where we're going to sleep on here?"

Tintin looked up with a grin. "Oh, I thought you'd just sleep in a cabinet."

She gave him a withering look. He chuckled and stood up.

"Only joking. Captain? Would you show us to our arrangements? You do have enough beds, don't you?" he added worriedly.

The Captain laughed. "Oh, aye. This way."

He led them down the hallway and into a broom closet of a room; barely big enough for the twin beds it contained. An armoire was shoved optimistically between the foot of the right bed and the wall, causing the two lowest drawers to be inaccessible. The open porthole let a fresh breeze permeate the dank, musty smell of decaying wallpaper. Monique eased through the doorway and stood between the pair of beds.

"Cosy," she said. Tintin sighed.

"Really, Captain, how much _did _you pay for this-"

"And right across the hallway," the Captain interrupted him brightly, "is the bathroom, with running hot water and a shower!"

"Isn't that a wonder," Tintin murmured.

The Captain gave him a smile. "Well, I've a few things to tend to. I'll leave you two to settle in."

Monique leapt onto the left bed on all fours. "I call this one!" She dissolved into a coughing fit as a mushroom cloud of dust blossomed from the sheets.

"Fine by me." Tintin gave his quilt a few half-hearted swipes before laying out on it, folding his arms behind his head. Snowy hopped up beside him. "Sorry about the close quarters," said Tintin.

"It's fine." Monique copied him, stretching out, hands clasped behind her head. "It's been a while since I've slept on a real bed, let alone one all to myself, so... it's nice."

They lay in silence for a moment, listening to the water lap up against the side of the boat and muffled cursing coming from the control room which, Monique had learned, was called the 'bridge' by nautical people.

"Monique, I have to ask you something." Tintin paused. "What made you want to listen in on the Mapache's secret meeting? How did you...know about them?"

She gave a small sigh and bit her lip. "I don't know, I guess I wanted to see what they were gonna do next. I don't like the way they make deals."

"Are their plans widely known to the locals in Buenos Aires?"

"No... It depends on who your friends are. I've kinda got my nose in everybody's business," she said carefully, her stomach beginning to twist. _Deflect questions, _she thought. _Turn on the offensive._

"I've got a question for you, Mr. Ace Reporter. Why isn't your editor person wondering where you are? Aren't you supposed to be doing a story right now?" She rolled to face Tintin, giving him an 'aren't-you-in-trouble' look.

"I am doing a story right now. And I think they've determined that I don't... ah, follow by the rules, as it were," he said.

Monique snorted. "You're cute when you try to sound like a rebel."

Tintin went quiet, smiling in a distant and not very intelligent way. It didn't seem like he was going to say anything else.

"Um... Tintin?"

He blinked and the smile dropped. "Hm? Oh, er, sorry. Did you say something?"

Monique rolled her eyes and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bunk. "Let's go back up to the galley. If I stay in this closet room much longer, I'm gonna lose it."

"I hate to break it to you, Monique, but these are your quarters for the next week and a half." Tintin gave her wry smile, standing up.

She frowned and went to the doorframe. "Don't remind me. I guess I'm just going to have to get used to you."

Tintin gave a half chuckle, following her out. He muttered under his breath, "Likewise."

/*/*/*/

Tintin was bent over the letter at the galley table, a pencil in one hand and, in the other, a German to English dictionary the Captain had found. His brow was furrowed, gaze switching from letter, to book, to letter, to notepad, on which he scribbled furiously. Snowy lay at his feet, letting out an occasional annoyed sigh.

Meanwhile, Monique began an optimistic quest for edible food. For a kitchen, there was a surprising amount of non-food items filling the cupboards and pantry. Random books and maps, nautical instruments, string, a few old coats, jars of strange rocks, scissors, socks, and whiskey. A lot of whiskey. Bottle after bottle, most empty, some not. _This Captain fella' must have the liver of a sea lion, _Monique thought.

"Aha!" Tintin burst suddenly, making Monique jump and drop the box of crackers she'd found. She came up beside him.

"Okay, I'm tired of listening to you mutter to yourself. What have you found out?"

Tintin looked up at her and blinked, drawing himself out of his own world. "Oh! Of course. Well, it seems to be instructions for Macarthur's operation in Saudi Arabia. Vital information. No wonder he was so broken up over losing it. Here, you can see my notes. I think I'll get us some tea." He stood up and went to the counter, filling a black kettle from the sink.

She bent over his notebook and frowned, narrowing her eyes. "Um... is that another language, or is your handwriting really that terrible?"

"Oh, sorry, it's shorthand. My own language, I suppose." Tintin gave a sheepish smile and leaned up against the counter. "I'll just tell you the most important discoveries. First is who sent the letter. A Nazi organisation called _Fichtes Verteidiger, _which means Fichte's Defenders."

"Who's Fichte?"

"I'm guessing it's a reference to Johann Fichte, a 19th century philosopher the Nazis admire. I wish I knew more about him, but, unfortunately, I skipped over that bit of my history studies. He was probably an advocate of social reform and nationalism, the whole fascist campaign."

Tintin lifted himself up off the counter and returned to his seat at the table. "But back to the letter. The first page is just a big formal carrying-on about Macarthur's duty to Der Fuhrer, his service to Germany, et cetera. Then they get into more interesting details. They're planning something that involves Muhammad Kalahn and Ricaco, that's for sure. Here are the floor plans of his palace and the surrounding grounds. I get the feeling they're going to steal something." He flipped to the floor plans and showed them to Monique. "They also keep mentioning another man named Aleksy Dudek, but I can't quite figure that part out."

"Wouldn't Macarthur and these Fitchy people want to take over Muhammad Kalahn's company... Ricaco, right?" Monique fiddled with the pen. "For control of the oil?"

Tintin nodded. "Yes, that's certainly a possibility. It would explain why he needs the Mapaches; they'd serve as manpower."

"Well, what have these German 'fellas said they want Macarthur to do?"

"Either they didn't specify in this letter, or I haven't translated that part yet. It's mostly guesswork, at this point. I'm not even sure what I'm looking for."

"Well," Monique said, "we've got a week and half to find it, right?"

Tintin nodded. "Right."

Suddenly, a strange duet of noise came from the stovetop. A bubble, a gurgle, and then the angry hissing of water on the flames. Monique lifted her head to see the kettle rattling on its burner, water bubbling out its spout.

"Crumbs, the tea," Tintin yelped. He leapt from his chair and lifted the kettle up, then let it clatter back down onto the counter in a hurry, shaking his fingers. The kettle gave one more spiteful spat of water and quieted.

The Captain strode into the room, picking up the box of crackers from the table and shoving two in his mouth before asking, "What was all the ruckus?"

"Your kettle doesn't whistle," said Tintin, turning off the burner. The Captain chuckled.

"Oh, I never use that silly old thing. It just keeps kicking around. Maybe it was a gift."

"Well, whoever gave it to you must not like you very much."

"Come to think of it, it must've come with the ship."

Tintin raised an eyebrow and nodded. "Ah. That explains it." He wrapped a towel around his hand and began pouring the water into three teacups. "Can I offer you some tea, Captain? Monique?"

Monique had been listening to them talk, fascinated by how different Tintin was acting. He seemed more relaxed, enjoying the ping pong game of conversation. She didn't think she'd ever seen the easy smile he gave the Captain. She felt a sudden pang in her stomach. Maybe it was just hunger, or maybe it was the longing that he would smile at her like that.

She jolted herself from her thoughts in enough time to say, "Yeah, sure."

"Thanks, but no thanks," said the Captain. "I'm going to go check the pressure on that tank. I don't trust it for a second."

"I'll help you," said Tintin, setting down Monique's cup in front of her.

"Hey, wait a minute, I'm coming, too." Monique left her tea and followed them down the hallway into the lower level of the ship. Snowy trotted along at her feet. "Aren't I allowed to see what's down here?" she asked teasingly. "Or is it a secret?"

"As long as you don't touch anything," said the Captain, leading the way down a metal walkway into a large space in the hollow of the yacht's belly. Twin machines sat there, side by side, a maze of metal pipes connected with rusted tubing. They filled the whole room with a humming, high-pitched noise that made Monique's ears buzz.

"Wow, how does it work?" She approached the left machine, reaching out a hand to the rattling pipe.

"I said," the Captain grabbed her arm, "don't touch anything."

Monique tore her arm away. "Okay, fine, geesh," she muttered, moving over to where they stood before a huge blue tank. It reached from the floor to the ceiling, and a glass panel on its side displayed the pressure.

"See, it's a bit too high for my liking, but I can't figure on why..." the Captain said to Tintin. "It's not a system I'm used to. Works nothing like a freighter." The Captain tapped the glass of the pressure display, as if it would make the wobbling little arrow move down.

There was a long panel of dials on the wall nearby. Monique walked up to it and examined the labels by the dials, a rainbow of sizes and colours. Most had names she didn't understand, but then she noticed a large black one marked 'pressure.' _It's an easier system than the Captain thought. _Monique grinned as she twisted the black dial down a few notches.

"Fixed it!" she declared. They swung their heads towards her. The Captain scowled and rushed over to the panel.

"What did you do?" he demanded.

"I fixed it." She pointed. "I turned down the pressure."

"No! That's the pressure of the air tanks in the engines, to keep them from overheating," the Captain spat, his voice rising. "You meddling little spider monkey! I _told _you not to touch anything. I don't know where you get off being so insolent, but on _my _ship, you do as I say."

"I was only trying to help." Monique crossed her arms.

"Captain, try to keep your temper, please. She didn't mean any harm," said Tintin, stepping forward.

"Oh yes, defend her idiocy. I can see she's got her claws into you," the Captain growled, fiddling with the panel. "I told you, Tintin, I warned you she'd be trouble. Women are nothing but bad luck, and she just proved it."

Monique looked at Tintin, furrowing her brow. "When was this? You were talking about me?"

Tintin winced. "No, Monique it wasn't like that, I-"

"It's just a stupid thing! I barely touched it!" She threw her arms out to the panel.

The Captain whirled on her. "This _stupid thing _is what just saved your skin from those thugs back in Belem which, I seem to recall, was your fault... and this ship is what will get you to Saudi Arabia, so I'd watch your mouth if I was you."

Monique grit her teeth and put her hands to her forehead. "I have no idea how I'm going to last a week on this godforsaken piece of junk with you two."

The Captain stepped towards her, fists clenched. "Piece of _junk?"_

Tintin put his arms between them hurriedly. "Alright, that's enough. I can see that if we're ever going to leave this boat with our sanity intact, we're going to have to set aside our differences. And for the sake of the case. We'll never catch up to the Mapaches if we're quarrelling all the time. So, perhaps if you both apologised..."

There was silence for a long moment.

Tintin turned his palms up, exasperated. "Please?"

Monique sighed. "Okay. I'm sorry I messed with with your air pressure thingy, Captain Haddock. I didn't mean to make any trouble."

"Hmph." He'd turned back to the panel of dials.

"Captain..." said Tintin warningly.

"Oh, alright, just to make you happy." He turned around to face her. "I'm sorry I lost my temper, Monique. It's nothing I can't fix. And I didn't really mean that women are nothing but bad luck... just most of the time..."

Tintin lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "Thank you, Captain. Now I'm sure you'd work a lot better if we left you alone, yes?"

"Yes, please feel free," he replied, only slightly sarcastically, as he went back to the dials, then to another panel near the twin engines, muttering to himself. Monique and Snowy followed Tintin back up to the galley.

Monique settled back into her seat and gave her tea a tentative sip, pleased to find it had cooled to the perfect temperature. Tintin took his cup from the counter and came to sit beside her.

"Thanks for making peace with the Captain," he said. "I know he can be a bit..."

"High-strung? Flammable? Crazy?"

Tintin chuckled. "I was going to say quick-tempered, but yes."

"How long have you two known each other?"

He thought for a moment, staring into his tea, cupped between both hands. "Must be close to two years now."

"You seem like good friends," said Monique, turning her gaze to the countertop.

"Yes..." Tintin looked up at her. "Are you missing anyone? Friends you left behind in Argentina?"

She shook her head.

He lifted an eyebrow gently. "Not really the type for friends, are you?"

"I don't... I try not to talk to people much, as a general rule. And when I do, I think they're kind of put off by me. I mean, I know a lot of people back in Buenos Aires, but knowing is different than actually getting to know them." She trailed off as she realised she'd just opened up to Tintin more than she had to anyone in her entire life. _Brain to mouth, stop talking!_

Tintin nodded. "I know exactly what you mean."

"You do?"

"Sure." He gave a small smile. "I meet so many people on every assignment, whether they're helping me or working against me, or just happen to be where I am. But then I move on, and I never see them again. Sometimes I wonder what they're doing now. If they're still alive." He put his teacup down and set his hands on the table. "But it wasn't that way with the Captain." He looked up to catch her eyes again. "And I hope it won't be that way with you."

Monique was frozen for a moment, trapped in his kind, sincere gaze. She dropped her eyes quickly. "You can't mean that... I've been awful to you. I..." She looked back up, just thinking of something. "I never even thanked you for rescuing me from drowning today. You saved my life."

He gave her his dimpled grin. "There, you thanked me just now. You're welcome."

Monique grinned back, thinking of something else. "And thanks for dancing with me in Tucurui."

Then it was Tintin's turn to stare into his tea, a slight flush touching his cheeks and the tips of his ears. "Ah... yes, that."

She tilted her head, raising an eyebrow teasingly. "I'm sure that couldn't have been the first time you've ever danced with a girl, Mr. Ace Reporter."

He gave a nervous chuckle. "You'd be surprised..." Hearing footsteps, he glanced up at the doorway to see the Captain walk in. "Did you get it sorted out?" he asked him, relieved for the interruption.

The Captain nodded. "Oh, aye. You should thank your lucky stars you didn't really break something," he said to Monique, shaking a finger.

"Hey, Captain, toss me the deck of cards on that shelf by you?" Tintin asked.

He obliged, and Tintin split the deck in half as he began to shuffle. "Fancy a game of poker, anyone?"

"Alright," said the Captain, taking the third chair at the table. "As long as we use crackers instead of money. I've got a bad track record with gambling."

Monique set aside her tea and smiled. "Sure, deal me in."

* * *

Now, there's some bonding! Took me a while to figure that out. And heheh, I have no idea how ships work, can you tell? :/ If you are a sailor and can correct my mistakes and/or give me a brief 'Engines for Dummies' course, I would be so grateful! Just shoot me a PM.

However, regardless of your nautical aptitude, anyone and everyone who just read this chapter is qualified to write a review! Things you loved, things you hated, things that confused you - you know I'd love to know.

Next chapter starts in Saudi Arabia, getting right back into the story. I'm skipping their epic crossing of the Atlantic for obvious reasons. But I'll give you a hint - remember the Dudek fellow referenced in the letter. He may be playing a part in this whole mess later on... Oh, who am I fooling? Yes, he'll be popping up. Duh.

*cough, virtual* Pie for reviewers! :D You are the best. And here's hoping Chapter 12 will be up soon! *clinks virtual pie forks*


	12. Saudi Arabia

HI GUYS! :D I can FINALLY post this chapter! Oh my good gravy did this and Chapter 13 give me a lot of trouble. I considered some really helpful criticism from a reviewer (whom I'll thank in a moment) and tried really hard to work it all out. But they're both done now (phew!) so it gives me great joy to announce that Chapter 14 will be easy and so 13 will be up soon. I know you all probably a) want to get to this long-awaited chapter and b) want me to shut up already, so I'll try to make my thank-yous brief. **Unemouette: **Your review was so sweet, thank you! :) Made me smile.** Guest 1: **I know, I'm sorry! :P But thank you so much, I'm so happy you're enjoying it. Yeah, Monique's a tricky one... Tintin better watch out. *ahem* All I'm going to say on that matter. Thanks! :) **Chocoegg333: **Yay! Thank you! :D **Guest 2: **I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciated your review. As much as I love nice reviews (who doesn't?), polite constructive criticism is hard to come by. :) I know, I'm a pretty crappy updater :( and there's unfortunately not much I can do on that front other than assure you I am determined to see this story through. About Monique; oh yes, she is a problem. I've been struggling with how to show other sides of her character that she doesn't show around Tintin, because in this story she's always around Tintin. Very frustrating. But hopefully the next couple of chapters might open her up a little bit more? I would so love to hear your opinion on if you see any improvement and what I might do to make her character better. Thanks again! :D

Oh! Quick yet very important note! I changed a character's name. Aleksy Dudek is now Cezar Dudek. He was only mentioned once in Chapter 11 but still. Forget Aleksy. He's Cezar now. I had to change it because Aleksy sounded too similar to another character's name and it bothered me. I know, I'm so annoying. Sorry!

And now... we see our daring heroes arrive in the Middle East. What new discoveries might the desert hold...? *raises eyebrow*

* * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

SAUDI ARABIA

**September 19****th****, 1944**

A hot desert wind stung Monique's eyes as she stared down the rocky golden landscape, gritting her teeth and wondering why, oh _why_ she'd allowed Tintin to help her up into the seat. Every muscle in her body screamed for her to jump over the side and run all the way to Ha'il, before it was too late.

Early that morning they'd moored in the small coastal city of Duba on Saudi Arabia's eastern shore and breakfasted on the last of the food they'd picked up in Crete. Monique had then raced out to the dock to take in the pleasant seaside town. After a long, often gruelling ten day journey they had finally reached Saudi Arabia. They were that much closer to their destination. Monique had been in a good mood, blissfully unaware of Tintin's plans.

Of course they were going to have to take a plane, a three hour flight, from Duba to reach Ha'il. She felt silly for not thinking of it before, although more time to worry and work her stomach into knots wouldn't have helped much.

The pilot called over his shoulder, "Are we ready?" He was young. Probably inexperienced. At least the plane rental had been open and pleasant, no shady moustachioed pilots in sight. Monique had stood by, fooling herself that everything was alright, as Tintin had completed all the forms and handed over the payment.

It wasn't until she'd looked up at the warm suffocating sky, climbing into the plane, that she'd balked.

"Ready," said Tintin, and gave Monique a reassuring smile, lifting his eyebrows. She turned away and glared at the back of the seat in front of her, where the Captain sat.

Desperate to focus on something else, her thoughts fell to the strange German letter. Part of her wished they'd never stolen it in the first place. 10 days of constant frustration, and not much to show for it. She'd come this close to tossing it over the side. Fichte's Verteidiger, whoever they were, wrote cryptically and tossed unidentifiable code into the sludge of German prose.

Macarthur was supposed to ask the Mapaches for something, something to do with Muhammad Kalahn. But what, exactly, they couldn't figure out. Tintin had a lot of theories, of course. But that's all they were; theories. Another man, Cezar Dudek, was mentioned often; working somewhere else on an unexplained, unrelated project. The worst by far, though, was a transparent sheet of plastic, a blue diagram of some kind of weapon, with lines leading to nowhere. It looked as though if it were placed atop another map it would all line up and make sense. But there was no other map. Tintin had come to the conclusion that Macarthur still had it.

_Oh, it's no use, _thought Monique as she crossed her arms over her stomach, sinking down in her seat as if to melt into the leather. Another plane. Another desert. Why not dune buggies, instead? Or camels? Anything closer to the ground. Against her will, her gut twisted and threatened to reject her breakfast. _My last meal, _she thought, then shuddered. _No, no, stop that, you're only making it worse. _She closed her eyes. Pictures flashed behind her eyelids like a horror film; enveloping green leaves, Tintin sprawled out across the plane's nose, covered in scarlet blood. The taste of burning metal coated her tongue.

Suddenly, a monstrous rattle shook her, and smoke filled her lungs. _The crash. It's happening again, _she thought. She gasped and snapped her eyes open, choking on mild confusion and terror.

"Monique?" She felt Tintin's hand on her arm. "Are you alright?"

Monique realised she'd crossed her arms over her chest, hands lifted to her neck, curling into herself. No wonder he looked so concerned. She nodded, not really trusting herself to speak. She glanced at his hand as he withdrew it.

"See? We've taken off. You know, thirty percent of fatal plane accidents occur during takeoff, so the worst is over."

She glared at him, but at the same time felt the clutch of her stomach release at the sound of his voice. "Not helpful, wise guy."

"Right, sorry." He gave her a wry smile, but his eyes were lined with concern. _He really is worried about me. _"Would if help if I just keep talking? Keep you distracted?"

She fought a sudden smirk. "Sure. Why don't you explain how engines work again? That might even put me to sleep." Strange though it seemed, talking to him did help her relax. She could channel all her nervous energy into coming up with the insults she loved to pelt him with. Spending a week and a half on a boat together had given her plenty of material.

Tintin frowned, feigning offense. "Sounds like you're feeling better now, anyway."

"The only thing that really reassures me is the fact that you're not flying the plane." Monique shot him a sideways glance.

He threw up his hands. "That was sheer bad luck."

"Mmhm, right." She leaned back in her seat. Snowy, sensing her distress like dogs somehow do, hopped into her lap, curling up and giving her a look as if to say 'I don't like this either…' She stroked the terrier's head, then cast her eyes over at Tintin again. He was staring off into the horizon, tapping an erratic beat on the floor with his right foot. She had the sudden, inexplicable wish that he'd worry about her some more. _"Monique, are you alright?" _The way he'd pronounced her name had made her stomach flutter, in a nice way. It sounded all soft, and... French-y. Was that a word? Yes, French-y. She wondered what he'd look like in a beret...

Monique snapped her head straight forwards, pitching her train of thought off the tracks. _What on earth? Boy, howdy – Monique, don't let this desert heat get the better of you. _Why was she suddenly noticing how he said her name? He'd only said it a billion times before.

And she was sure he couldn't pull off a beret.

Not that it mattered, either, but still.

Monique shook her head, as if to clear her thoughts away, and took a deep breath. She kept still as a statue, eyes riveted to the back of the Captain's seat, until, years later, the pilot called out over his shoulder.

"There's Ha'il, up ahead!"

All four craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the city as it came into view. It was not much bigger than Duba, but there were many more buildings and houses clumped together, looking very out of place in the rolling golden landscape, like a human colony on another planet. The green tops of date trees dotted fields on the outskirts of town. Monique could see a giant white stone mansion sprawled near the airfield where they were headed. _That's gotta be the place, _she thought.

"Muhammad Kalahn's palace," said Tintin, pointing, as if he'd read her mind. Monique nodded and trained her eyes to the back of the seat again, bracing herself for landing.

/*/*/*/

"Now wait a minute here, Tintin."

The Captain cast a doubtful eye up the full height of the towering white gates that barred the entrance to the mansion. Snowy found the bars too close together to squeeze through and huffed. "What are we doing? We can't just march into the place," said the Captain.

"No, we're requesting an audience with Kalahn. Just to ask him a few questions about business, take note of the grounds, keep an eye out for anything odd. The only trick is getting in... Ah, there's a guard now." A large man wearing a white uniform and a scowl, rifle resting on his shoulder, stomped towards them.

"Excuse me, sir. Tintin, reporter for Le Vingtieme Siecle." He flashed his press card. "I'm here to request an interview with Sahib Muhammad Kalahn, for a report on the oil companies in the Middle East. I'm sure he would wish for his company Ricaco to be mentioned in the article?"

"Yes, is good. But who is with you?" The guard grimaced, gesturing toward Monique and the Captain.

"They're reporters as well. Except, of course, for the dog."

Monique gave the man a smile and an ironic curtsy. The Captain glared at Tintin, arms crossed.

"Hm. I call Sahib Kalahn's secretary, and ask if he sees reporters today. You wait." The guard disappeared inside a small box near the gate. The Captain turned to Tintin and furrowed his brow.

"What are you on about? Me, a reporter?"

"Just go along with it, Captain. Trust me; it's for the better," he said quickly.

"Hmph. If you say so."

The guard walked back over. "You may see Sahib Kalahn now. Come with me." He took a small remote out of his pocket and punched in a few numbers. The huge gates slowly swung apart. _Whoa... neat! _Monique thought as the guard led them down the road toward the palace.

As they got closer, Monique began to realise exactly how rich Kalahn really was. The palatial mansion was beautifully designed, with towering marble columns standing sentinel by its entrance. Over the surrounding grounds lush gardens stretched, filled with fruit trees, garish flowers, and chattering oasis birds rustling among the leaves.

As they went past, Monique leaned over towards a magnificent hibiscus bush, moving to pluck one of its blossoms, but Tintin's hand caught hers just in time. _Don't,_ he told her wordlessly. She made a face at him, which he ignored.

The main doors of the palace, at least 20 feet high, were wide open. They were shown into a sunny foyer, framed by more marble columns lining the walls within the building. The guard gestured again to a line of plush benches against one wall and said, "You wait." He turned and stalked out the doors.

Monique paced around slowly, looking about. The columns drew her eyes upward, as was intended, to admire the intricate carved ceiling of a swooping floral design, inlayed with gold. Actually, Monique wasn't sure if it really had a gold inlay, but she'd always imagined that's what one looked like.

With her gaze turned up to the ceiling, Monique didn't notice the man charging towards her, his eyes cast down to the thick file in his hands, until they collided, her boots letting out a brief screech as they almost went out from underneath her. The file leapt out of the man's arms, papers cascading out in all directions.

"Hey!" Monique stumbled back, righting herself just in time.

The man was not so lucky. "Oh, a-ah!" He took a step backwards and slipped on a piece of paper, landing squarely on his rump on the marble floor. He sat there, surrounded by scattered papers, more fluttering down from above. Tintin and Monique held out their hands to help him to his feet.

"Sorry. I didn't see you there, Mr...?" Monique turned it up into a question.

"I am sorry, so sorry," the man murmured through a thick accent, but did not give his name. As he stood, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, Monique got a better look at him. He was an old thirty or young forty, dwarfed by his long white lab coat, which hung off his slender body like a queen-size sheet. The nametag on his lapel read 'DUDEK.'

Monique shot Tintin a look. He'd seen it, too, and was surely thinking the same thing. _This could be the fella in the letter!_

The man fell forwards to his knees again immediately, and began grabbing papers out of the Captain's hands to shove them back into the folder, which read 'Progress Report.'

"Sorry, I will pick up, thank you," he said.

"Don't trouble yourself. No harm done," said the Captain. He went to gather more of the papers, but Dudek snatched them up first.

"Please, I will pick up," he said again, a little more fiercely. The Captain sat back and raised his eyebrows.

Monique, however, ignored the man's request and bent to sweep up a pile out of Dudek's reach. "Sorry," she said again. "This looks like quite a project. I hope you didn't have 'em all in order or something."

"No, it is nothing," he said, his voice quivering slightly. Monique couldn't quite place his vague European accent. He held out his hand for the papers, which Monique gave. Once they were all tucked into the folder once more, Dudek stood and Tintin stuck out a hand towards him.

"Mr. Dudek, allow me to introduce us. I'm Tintin, this is, er, Amy Cox and... Samuel Smith. We're reporters from Le Vingtieme Siecle, working on a story about the oil industry in Saudi Arabia. Do you work in the refinery?"

"Refinery... no. Why do you ask?"

Tintin gestured to the man. "I was only judging by your lab coat."

Dudek glanced down at himself and frowned, bringing the folder up to his chest to effectively cover his nametag. "I do not work there," he said shortly. "I am visiting for tests, that is all."

"Are those the results?" asked the Captain, pointing to the file.

The man's frown deepened, lips twitching nervously before he said, "Ah, I apologise, I have no time for talk. I must be returning to work. If you'll excuse me." He gave an awkward nod before scurrying off across the hall.

After he'd disappeared out a set of doors, the Captain grunted. "Hm. Shifty-eyed fellow. Seemed eager to get back to his tests." He shoved his hands in his pockets.

Monique turned to Tintin eagerly. "D'you suppose that's the man they kept mentioning in the letter?"

"It could be." Tintin rubbed his cheek. "Dudek... it's a Polish name. Visiting for tests, hm?"

"He sure was nervous. Or else he really didn't trust us." Monique went over to the line of couches and flopped down onto the plush velvet. Tintin and the Captain followed suit.

"No." Tintin suddenly came out of his thoughts. "And I wouldn't trust us either, frankly. You two have got to act the part for our interview with Kalahn. It's very important he doesn't suspect us of anything."

"Act the part?" Monique raised an eyebrow.

"Just be... normal. Professional," he said. "Cross your legs when you sit down," he added to Monique.

"Why? What's wrong with how I normally sit?" she snapped, glancing down at herself. Her arms were crossed over her stomach, legs splayed apart comfortably.

Tintin raised his eyebrows. "Well, er... nothing."

"Oh, it's not ladylike, right?" She crossed her legs primly, folding her hands in her lap and sitting up straight. "Is that it? Dear me, too bad I forgot my knitting."

Tintin sighed. "Never mind. Just let me do most of the talking and we should be fine."

"Of course, Mr. Ace Reporter." She gave him a mock salute.

Another guard appeared and gestured for them to rise and follow him through yet another set of double doors. "Sahib Kalahn will see you now."

They followed him down a hallway into a large office. The room was decorated much like the foyer, tapestries and paintings hanging from the walls. There was a sharp scent of cinnamon incense suffused throughout the room. Monique held back a sneeze, making a funny choked sound in her throat. Scarlet silk curtains caught the late afternoon sunlight through the windows.

In the centre of the room was a stately desk of chestnut wood. Reclining in the chair behind it was an imposing man with deep brown skin and dark, nearly black eyes. His eyebrows were thick and furrowed, making Monique think of a small animal clinging to his forehead. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk in front of him, and sized up his visitors.

"Good afternoon, my friends. What brings you here today?" he addressed them in a smooth baritone. His accent was only slightly pronounced. Monique thought he wore the expression of someone who felt you may be about to waste their time.

"Good afternoon, Sahib Kalahn. I'm Tintin, reporter for Le Vingtieme Siecle, and these are my colleagues, Amy Cox and Samuel Smith."

The man shook each of their hands in turn before they sat in the chairs arranged before the desk. Monique kept her legs apart, but Tintin didn't notice, or if he did, pretended not to. He said, "We're here doing a story on the power struggles in the Middle East, struggles for control of the massive oil reserves in this country. May we take a few moments of your time for an interview?"

Monique couldn't help but notice a change in Tintin's voice; it was slightly deeper than his normal pitch, and slower. It made him sound older. Not only that but his mannerisms, in the way he shook the man's hand and sat forward on his chair. He didn't break eye contact. He was always courteous, but this was different, he had more self-assurance than he had ever shown around Monique. She moved a little bit forward on her chair and imitated how Tintin was sitting, subconsciously, before she stopped and gave herself a tiny eye-roll. _Stop thinking about Tintin! And pay attention to the conversation, for goodness sake._

Tintin was saying something. "...of course. So, what do you feel threatens your power here in Saudi Arabia most? Government regulations? Private operations?"

Muhammad Kalahn pursed his lips. "That is an interesting question. There are always... precautions I must take in the conduction of my business here, but I happen to do that very well. It is how my father ran this company. I operate under the same principles."

"What principles are those?" asked Tintin.

"It is like the English phrase... keep your friends close, and your enemies closer? Once you understand the threat, there is no threat."

"Do you think the war has changed your principles?"

The man shook his head. "No. If anything, it has strengthened them. In times such as these, it is even more important to know who are friends and who are enemies."

"So who are they?"

"I could not tell you that. I don't know which you are yet."

Tintin gave a nervous chuckle. "Yes, of course, sir. You sell your oil exclusively to the Allies, correct?"

Kalahn nodded slowly. "I did not want to take a side. But, often, the most difficult decision can lead to the most profit. Or the most loss."

"Another of your principles?" the Captain put in. Muhammad Kalahn glanced at him.

"Yes."

"And what can you say about your decision now?" asked Tintin.

"It continues to be profitable."

Tintin glanced down at his notebook. "What is your response to the reports that there have been direct challenges towards your company recently?"

"I concede that there are few entities who may dislike my presence for whatever reason... but they are not _challenges_. That is a heavy word. Take care throwing it about here."

"Of course, I apologise. Has anyone ever made offers to buy Ricaco before?"

"Yes, a few. But I will not sell. Business may be on the rise now, but in health _or_ sickness I will not leave Ricaco. That is the most important principle." Muhammad Kalahn leaned back in his chair, giving a short nod of conviction.

Tintin scribbled furiously in his notebook, apparently delighted by this information. Monique decided to make her move.

"When we were coming in, we ran into a man on his way out; tall, wearing a white lab coat? His name was Dudek. Seemed like he was in a hurry. Does he work for you?" she asked Kalahn. Three pairs of eyes, not counting Snowy panting beside her chair, had turned towards her, and Monique suddenly regretted the question. _Please don't tell me I just ruined the interview._

Muhammad Kalahn took a long while in answering, considering Monique as if trying to remember something. Tintin watched him carefully. It was the only time during the whole interview that Monique saw him display the slightest evidence of nervousness. His face coloured slightly, though it was hard to tell past his sunburned cheeks. _I've got to stop looking at him, _Monique thought. _What is wrong with me?_

"Dudek," said Kalahn at last, furrowing his brow. "Yes, he works for me. Why, what was he doing?"

"Just hurrying out with a load of papers," said Monique.

A strange expression came across the man's face. He said slowly, "Yes. Dr. Cezar Dudek is here for tests in the refinery. He was... meeting with me, for a progress report."

_Cezar Dudek, _Monique thought, barely suppressing a smile. _Victory! That's our man._

"His name sounds familiar," said Tintin vaguely. "Is he Polish?"

"I believe so. I do not know the man well. He hasn't been here long." Kalahn drew himself up in his chair and shifted his gaze to his desk. "Is there anything else you wish to ask me?" Monique got the sense that he was eager for them to leave.

"Er, well, for a closing statement, is there anything else you wish to say about your business?" Tintin asked.

"No." The man's face was grim.

"Well, thank you for your time. It's been very informative." Tintin smiled a business smile and shook his hand. Monique and the Captain took their turns afterwards as they all stood up.

"Yes, yes. I am sorry to cut this short, but I have things I must attend to. Good day," Muhammad Kalahn nodded, giving them a tight smile, and sat back down at his desk.

Another guard saw them out, and Monique emerged into the hot sun of late afternoon with her mind full of questions. She right away wanted to ask Tintin about what that all meantbut he was tauntingly silent until they were down the path and in the dusty streets of Ha'il.

"That couldn't have gone better!" he said as they strolled away from the white gates of Muhammad Kalahn's palace. Excitement glowed in his eyes. "There is a great story here, I can feel it..."

"My question is; what do the Moopoochees, or... er, whatever they're called, have to do with any of it?" the Captain asked.

"That's exactly what we need to find out. I want to know more about this Dudek fellow, as well- oh!" Tintin was cut short as he ran straight into two men, walking side by side, identically dressed in long, flowing burnouses. They both carried canes, one with a black leather briefcase as well, and their mouths were hidden underneath thick black moustaches. They jumped back simultaneously, brushing themselves off and muttering, "Beg pardon, beg pardon."

"Thompson? Thomson? Is it really you?" Tintin laughed. _He knows these weirdos? Figures, _Monique thought.

"Tintin! Just the man we've been looking for!" One of them exclaimed.

"To be precise- er...you are!" The other added, beaming. He turned to the Captain. "Good day, Captain Haddock. Good to see you again." He went to tip his hat, only to remember that it wasn't there. He dropped his hand quickly, embarrassed. The Captain gave him a nod. Monique couldn't suppress a giggle.

"And you are, young lady...?" The man raised his eyebrows. Tintin turned to the two.

"Oh, yes. Thompson, Thomson, this is Monique Fronville, my friend I met in Buenos Aires. Monique, meet my old friends Thompson and Thomson. They're detectives with the Scotland Yard."

"I'm Thompson with a 'p', as in physiognomy."

"And I'm Thomson without the 'p', as in Venezuela. Pleasure."

"I'm Monique with an 'm', as in mnemonic."

She gave up trying to figure out the difference between the two men and looked over at Tintin. He rolled his eyes and turned to his friends.

"So, you received the telegram I sent in Brazil?" he asked them as the group began walking down the sidewalk again.

"Indeed we did. You'll be quite pleased to know we managed to procure a file on Macarthur, which I'm sure you'll find interesting. We came all the way here ourselves to ensure its confidentiality! But first, we have burning news to tell you," said Thompson.

Thomson nodded. "To be precise; we've been burning news."

"Why don't we discuss it in this cafe over tea?" Tintin gestured to the open door of a small restaurant they were passing by. The group filed in, and were soon seated around the largest table. Snowy leaned against Tintin's chair and noted hungrily the smells coming from the kitchen.

"So, what news?" Tintin asked.

"It concerns your home country, Belgium. We're not sure if you're aware of this, but a little over two weeks ago, Brussels was liberated. Fighting continues for the rest of Belgium, of course, but the main German presence has finally come to an end. Belgium has joined the Allies," said Thompson.

Monique watched Tintin's brow suddenly lighten, and he smiled. "That's wonderful."

"Finally, those body-snatching fascists have been shown the door!" said the Captain.

"Um... what are they talking about?" Monique asked Tintin. "Who invaded where?"

He sighed. "Near the beginning of the war, Germany invaded Belgium on their way to France, even though we'd declared ourselves a neutral country. Resistance was short-lived. It only took 18 days. My hometown of Brussels became a Nazi stronghold. You can understand now why I'm so against the war. It has broken apart Europe more than we ever could have imagined..." Tintin trailed off.

"But you see; now you can walk through the streets of Brussels without those SS men posted on every corner," said Thomson happily. "I believe that's cause to celebrate!"

"I'll take the liberty of ordering a few rounds," the Captain put in.

"Yes, yes, it's very good news," Tintin said, ignoring the Captain. "And you have Macarthur's file?"

"Right here in my briefcase. Interesting record, it is...Not a single jail sentence, just pardon after pardon..." said Thompson, pulling the manila folder out of his overflowing briefcase and handing it to Tintin, who began flipping through it.

"Paid them off, probably," said Monique.

"Yes, that would make sense..." Tintin nodded. "He doesn't seem to be fond of permits. Those are the only offenses he seems to make, getting caught without a permit..."

"Hey!" An unfamiliar voice jolted them all to attention. "Are any of you going to order something?" a man with a thick Arabian accent asked crossly as he came out of the kitchen.

"Yes, I need a drink," said the Captain. "This desert air really dries out the throat, don't you agree? A glass of whiskey, please."

"I'll have a lamb sandwich," said Monique, glancing at the menu. Snowy perked up, and went to sit underneath her chair instead. The man nodded and then directed his gaze to Thompson and Thomson, who were squabbling over what to order.

"Er...Do you have eggs Benedict?" Thompson asked.

"Don't be a fool, Thompson, they wouldn't have that! You have to order a traditional dish," Thomson whispered to him.

"I would suggest our special today, spicy goat stew. Very traditional dish," the cook said, pinching his fingers.

"Yes, very good. And a pot of tea as well, my good man." Thomson handed him the menus. "Anything you'd like, Tintin?"

"Er...no, no I'm fine." He waved a hand. He was poring through the folder, focused on its contents.

After what felt like an hour of trying to peer over Tintin's shoulder at the folder, their food arrived. Monique began wolfing down her sandwich, dropping pieces to Snowy because if she didn't, he'd try to hop up on her lap. _He's got me trained, that's for sure. _

Meanwhile, the detectives were having some difficulty with their stew. Thompson, who tried it first, turned bright red and coughed, clutching his chest.

"Careful there, my man. It's got quite a kick!" he choked out as Thomson took a large spoonful of the stew. He, too, flushed red and began sputtering.

"To be precise: it's still k-kicking!" Thomson gagged. He searched around desperately for something to drink that wasn't hot tea and, seeing only the Captain's glass of whiskey, grabbed it and downed it. Thomson then realised what the glass had contained. His eyes began to water as he hacked and choked. Monique clamped her hands over her mouth, barely able contain her laughter. Then the Captain went to pick up his glass, only to find it empty. He scowled.

"You!" He whirled around in his seat towards the coughing detective and jabbed a finger in his chest. "Do you make a habit of going around and snatching up other people's whiskey, or am I just an exception? You oafish landlubber!" He rose up out of his seat, face turning redder and redder as he spoke. Monique couldn't hold it in any longer. She took her hands away from her mouth and laughed. The Captain turned to her and narrowed his eyes.

"Don't you start, you cheeky little orang-utan!"

"I deeply apologise, Captain Haddock," Thomson sputtered.

"Yes, do keep your temper, my good man. It was only a simple accident," said Thompson.

"To be precise; I'm quite simple," Thomson choked. Captain Haddock reluctantly sat back down in his seat, grumbling and giving Thomson a nasty glare.

"You've got the craziest friends, you know that?" Monique said to Tintin.

He looked up from the file and grinned. "So what does that make you?"

"Hey!" She playfully shoved his arm, but at the same moment, her heart did a little jump for joy. _That's the first time he's called me his friend. I mean, of course I'm his friend, but hearing him say it feels... different, somehow._

Tintin glanced at the last paper in the file and widened his eyes. "Ah! Here's something interesting."

They all leaned over the table to see what he'd discovered. Tintin laid out the folder in the centre and pointed to the most recent offense.

"There. Macarthur was caught in China without proper registration to be docking his boat at the main port in Sanya. It says here that his ship is a bulk carrier, 80 metres long!"

"That happened only two days ago." Monique pointed to the date. "September 17th."

"Hm... a bulk carrier named 'The Sea God'. He must be in China, delivering something...or buying something. Why else would he need such a huge ship?" Tintin thought aloud.

"Where's Sanya?" Monique asked.

"It's a port city on a small island called Hainan, located off the southern coast of China."

Monique paused for a moment, considering. Then she turned and gave Tintin a grin.

"What?" he said, grinning back in spite of himself.

"I think it looks like we've found our next destination, Mr. Ace Reporter."

"I have to agree." Tintin turned to the Captain. "Tell me, Captain, have you ever been to Hainan?"

He groaned good-naturedly. "No, but you know me. I'm game for anything," he chuckled. Tintin and Monique shared a look. He closed the folder.

"Well, then. Sanya, China it is."

* * *

Whew! Yeah. Lot of stuff happened. *puts fingertips together like mastermind guy* Hehehe, it's all going according to plan... Oh wait, of course it is, I'm writing this. Right. So, anyway, I want to congratulate all you beautiful people who reviewed last chapter - you guys broke the record for the most reviews I've ever received on one chapter, with 10 reviews! *claps* You are amazing and I love you. :3 This time, in honour of St. Patrick's Day, I'm giving all reviewers gold chocolate coins. And if you're Irish, I might even kiss you. ;) Just kidding!

If you guys are as excited as I am for lucky Chapter 13, then please leave a review! :D *dances off with a leprechaun*


	13. Sanya, China

Thank you, spring break. That's all I have to say. Hehe never mind, I'm lying, that's not all - but spring break is the reason this chapter is up right now. :) And I plan to lock myself in my room the rest of this week to finish chapters 15, 16 _and _17 too... *sigh* wish me luck. Really quickly- **Unemouette: **Thanks for the review! Yes, I had a lot of fun writing the Thom(p)sons, and Dudek. :D Glad you liked the chapter!

And now I proudly present the decidedly rather unlucky Chapter 13... ;)

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SANYA, CHINA

_**September 24****th****, 1944**_

It was sometime shortly after they'd moored, night still thick outside the porthole window, when Tintin heard the scream.

He was in and out of sleep for what seemed like a long moment, trying to discern if the noise had been real or in his dreams, but then it came again. He sat up quickly, whirling to face Monique's bunk.

She had stretched as far as she could towards him, the space between their beds so narrow that her fingers nearly touched his arm. Her cry died in her throat and she tore another breath, bringing her arms in close to her again and rolling over violently to face the wall. Her mattress had been stripped bare; sheets and quilt lying in a tangle on the floor between the beds. Even her pillow had been pushed off. Tintin nearly tripped over it as he stood up, and flicked on the light.

Monique looked so small, lying in the centre of her mattress, dwarfed by the nightshirt the Captain had lent her. It was so huge on her it normally fell well down to her thighs, but the navy blue silk slipped further up as she twisted her legs towards her chest. Tintin knew he should look away, but somehow he couldn't. She began murmuring an intelligible mixture of English and Spanish, and perhaps a name, always too softly for Tintin to catch. He stood stock still, captivated, as she rolled over again, clenching her eyes tightly. He was so close to her he could see the fine hair around her face clinging to her damp skin.

She tilted her face upwards suddenly and relaxed, letting out a heavy sigh. _Perhaps the nightmare has passed over_, thought Tintin, as he moved closer. Her expression was so natural, even graceful, in sleep. Free of the inhibition and pensive glares of her waking hours. She was an open book. Someone he could understand.

Before he knew what he was doing, Tintin's hand had lifted close to her face, brushing her cheek with his fingertips, as gently as a breath. Monique exhaled again and smiled.

Then, suddenly, her hand came up and grabbed Tintin's, holding his fingers to her cheek. He froze, heart leaping into his throat. _Crumbs. How am I going to explain this one?_

But her eyes remained closed. She breathed, lips slightly parted, and reached up with her other hand towards Tintin's face. He watched her, horrified.

"Alex?" Monique breathed. She smiled gently. "Alex, it's you..."

_Alex?_

"Alex?" said Tintin, then immediately wanted to smack himself. Monique's eyes fluttered open, and she stared at Tintin, still half in her dream. He was too shocked and horrified to react at first, fingers still pressed against her feverish cheek. Then they both moved at once; Monique dropping her hands and scrambling to sit up as Tintin wrenched himself away and stumbled back a foot. He felt his cheeks begin to burn, hyperconscious of how she was staring at him.

"Er, oh, sorry, I w-was just..."

Monique was completely awake now. She sat up and pulled her nightshirt down over her legs. "You were just what?"

He swallowed. His throat had gone completely dry. "I-I... sorry, I was just... you were... a nightmare. I mean, you were having a nightmare."

"Oh, alright." She sounded shaken, but not angry. "If that's all."

He nodded. "I was just about to wake you up, er, shake your shoulder or something, but you reached up and grabbed my hand. And... er, pulled it to your cheek. Sorry. I mean, I was going to wake you up. From the nightmare."

She narrowed her eyes briefly. "Did you say something?"

"What?" Tintin tried to steady his voice. He didn't know why he was so nervous. _I haven't done anything indecent, have I?_ "I mean, when? I'm talking to you right now..."

"I know that, I'm right here, aren't I? I mean when I woke up."

"...Right when you woke up? You said Alex."

"_I _said Alex?" She pointed to her chest, incredulous.

"Yes, I said Alex because you said Alex."

"So you did say Alex."

Tintin's tongue felt somehow heavy and awkward in his mouth."B-Because you said it first. In your sleep. You were calling me Alex."

Monique stared at him for a long moment. At last she said, "Did I say anything else?"

He shook his head.

"Did I _do_ anything else?"

He shook his head again.

"Oh. Okay. Good." Monique sounded cautious. She wrapped her arms around herself as if she was cold. Tintin went and sat on the edge of his bed, facing her.

"I'm sorry," he said again. Just to make sure she knew he was.

She gave him a small smile. "Tintin, it's okay. You don't have to apologise. I know you were just going to wake me up."

"No, I mean about the nightmare. Would it help if you told me what it was?"

She shook her head mutely. She had drawn her legs up underneath her in the most modest position possible. Tintin gathered up her quilt from the floor and handed it to her.

"Monique, if there's anything you'd like to talk about..."

"Not really." Her voice was a bit too light.

"You know you can tell me anything, don't you?" He tried to catch her eyes, but as soon as he did they darted to her lap again.

"I don't know," she said, lips twitching into a smirk. "I've heard you reporters are a pretty gossipy bunch. Couldn't keep a secret if your life depended on it."

Tintin fought a smile. "You can't believe everything you hear."

Monique scoffed. "Hah. Exactly. My secrets are certainly headline material," she added, nearly to herself.

"Are they really?" Tintin grinned. "Music to my ears. Do continue."

She made a face. "Keep dreaming, Ace Reporter."

Tintin chuckled and went to the armoire, taking his cargo shorts and white cotton shirt from the top drawer. "We ought to get dressed and leave right away, while there's still some darkness left. I'd like to see without being seen." Snowy, at last noting his master's absence from the bed, sat up and stretched luxuriously. Monique gazed out the porthole at the empty blackness. "You think the Thompsons are back in England now?"

"Yes, it's been five days since we parted ways in Ha'il. I only hope that _we_ aren't too late to catch Macarthur here in Sanya. But if he's doing what I suspect he's doing, we're just in the nick of time. Now, if you'll pardon me, I have to get dressed." Tintin slipped into the bathroom across the hall.

_Alex? _he thought, frowning, as he dressed. _Who is Alex? Someone she left behind in Argentina, no doubt. Is he the real reason she left? An ex-boyfriend she pines for? _He couldn't explain why Monique dreaming about some 'Alex' fellow bothered him so much. It wasn't like he expected her to open up to him; she'd made her feelings about _that_ perfectly clear. He wanted to just ask, "who's Alex?" like it was an interview. Honest and straightforward. _You should know by now, _Tintin told himself bitterly, _the words aren't in Monique's vocabulary._

He decided he was thinking about it too much, and ought to forget the whole thing. He ran the comb through his quiff once, then left to go to the galley, but paused when he heard loud cursing coming from the belly of the ship. He descended into the engine room to find the Captain, covered in grease, crouched over the left engine, muttering crossly at a dented pipe. He had in his hand a monkey wrench and, giving up on one of the screws, tossed it behind him. Tintin dodged the piece of metal and yelped. The Captain turned around and drew the back of his hand over his brow, smearing black grease across his forehead.

"What d'you want?"

"Just to say good morning. Is there something wrong with the ship?" Tintin asked. The Captain nodded.

"Blasted engine gave out just as we came into port. Good thing too, a couple hours ago and we would be stranded out in the middle of the ocean. I think it's a fuel problem, but it'll take me a while to figure it out. Billions of blistering barnacles, what a mess!"

"What's going on?" Tintin heard Monique's voice become clearer as she hopped down the stairs. Snowy followed along behind her.

"This _addle-pated_ hunk of metal won't run properly." The Captain punctuated his words with a kick to the pipe. "It's going to take me at least a few hours to fix it."

"Well, I'm sorry, Captain, but we can't wait around much longer. Macarthur's ship might leave the port any minute, if it hasn't already. Do you mind if Monique, Snowy and I set out without you?" Tintin asked. The Captain nodded.

"You go on. I need to fix 'er. Can't be stuck with a broken-down engine if we need to make a quick getaway, can we?" He went back to wrenching away at the pipe by way of closing the matter.

"We'll see you in a little while then," said Tintin. "If we end up in some predicament, I'll try to send Snowy back to you with a message of some kind. Otherwise, expect us back by sundown, at the latest."

"Aye, aye, stay out of trouble. But since that's impossible for you, just avoid getting shot," the Captain muttered.

"We will. Avoid it, I mean. Come on then, Monique. Snowy."

Up on the deck, a row of shipyard lights from the shore not far away cast faint golden light over the ships. They bobbed gently, side by side, down alongside the wooden dock into the vague, black horizon. _This is no small port, _thought Tintin. _We've got our work cut out for us._

"No breakfast?" Monique asked as they made their way down _The Marlin's _rickety walkway onto the dock.

Tintin turned and gave her a look. "Monique, this could get very serious very quickly. Try to stay focused." He noticed she'd left behind the messenger bag she hardly went anywhere without. It was strange to see her without it.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. "Hardly justifies skipping meals. What's the plan, anyway? Where are we going?"

"If we can find the harbour offices, we can look up where _the Sea God _is moored. Or was. But I'll bet they're still here, loading cargo. A ship that size takes a while to supply. Especially if the cargo is illegal."

They walked along the dock, making out their surroundings through a thick veil of night as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. The ships around them seemed to be getting bigger and dirtier, pleasure yachts and tourist vessels left far behind. The sound of voices and heavy machinery could be heard in the distance, but Tintin couldn't determine the source of it yet. Otherwise, the bay was still and silent.

That was why Tintin didn't notice the man standing in the shadows of a nearby ship until he called out something in Chinese. Tintin, Monique and Snowy all jumped and whirled to face him. He came out of the shadow and drew up his shoulders, glaring down at the teenagers. He was tall and burly, a cigarette balanced delicately between his huge fingers. He let out his breath and a curl of smoke caught the dim moonlight.

"What're you two doing down here? Hardly tourist hours," he said, or something like it, as Tintin quickly dusted off his Chinese. He sized up the man, weighing his options. Tintin seriously doubted he was one of Macarthur's thugs. Although he did look the part, if he was he would've known Tintin upon sight and therefore wouldn't have wasted any time making small talk. Even so, he nearly subconsciously positioned himself between Monique and the stranger.

He had to say something, so he managed, "Good evening, sir. We're lost."

The man chuckled, and let out another cloud of smoke. "Then you better find yourselves pretty fast. This is no place for children."

As usual, Monique's mouth ran faster than her better judgement. She said to Tintin, "Ask him if he knows where _the Sea God _is." Tintin winced. _The boat is English; he'll recognise the name. There goes our cover._

"_Sea God?" _the man said in English. He glanced left and right, then lowered his voice and continued in Chinese, "You must be joking. And that ship is no laughing matter."

Considering he hadn't struck them down dead yet, Tintin decided to move boldly forward. "Why not, sir?"

The man shook his head. "Don't go near it. I know a man who worked for them, just loading flour, but a day later he talked to the wrong fellow. Got three shots to the neck." He touched his throat, then quickly stuck his cigarette between his lips and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I shouldn't be talking about it. I shouldn't be talking to you. You seem like nice kids. Get out of here and forget about it."

Tintin moved closer. "Just tell us where it is and you'll never see us again."

The man released another column of smoke and turned away. Tintin thought he wasn't going to tell them after all, but then the stranger spoke out the side of his mouth, almost too quickly for Tintin to make out, "Down about a hundred paces that direction. Number 147. Can't miss it." He stalked off in the other direction and disappeared into the night.

"So?" said Monique as Tintin started walking, and she and Snowy kept pace. "What'd he say?"

"Luckily enough, he wasn't what I thought he was, and he told me just what I needed to hear. But we might not be so lucky in the future, so _please _try to learn when to keep quiet."

"But he told you where the ship was, didn't he? If I hadn't mentioned it, it never would've come up."

Tintin opened his mouth, then closed it. "You have a point," he said. He didn't have to look over at Monique to know she was wearing her little smile of pride.

"See?" she said. "I can be helpful. I can match you blow for blow with all this investigation stuff. I suppose it just comes naturally to me..."

Tintin was only half listening, he was paying more attention to the numbers painted along the dock. _135...137...139..._

"...girls could be reporters, too, don't you think? Have you ever met one, back in Belgium?"

_143...145...147. _Tintin stopped in his tracks, looking up, and Snowy nearly ran into him. There it was – _The Sea God. _And it was bustling. He noticed the head of a Mapache guard bobbing over the railing as he patrolled the perimeter of the monstrous ship, looking down at the dock occasionally. He was about to pass by.

"I bet you have. I bet she was better than you, and-"

Tintin clamped a hand over Monique's mouth and pulled her quickly into the shadows. The guard went on past. He took his hand away and gave her a meaningful look. "What did I tell you about keeping quiet?" he whispered.

But she was looking over his shoulder at the ship. It lived up to its name, so mighty it seemed like if it sank it would pull the whole bay down with it. It had been moored close to the shore, alongside a dockyard stacked high with large wooden crates, and busy workers calling to each other. The noise of machinery had been coming from there, as huge metal cranes hoisted each wooden crate onto the deck, where more workers pushed the cargo down into the belly. The dockyard was connected to the dock by a metal walkway, hidden in the shadow of the ship. As no one else was on the dock, the walkway was quite empty.

"Well? There it is. Being loaded up with... something. What are we gonna do now?" Monique asked.

Tintin rubbed his cheek, silent for a moment, before gesturing for Monique and Snowy to follow him along the dock towards the walkway, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. As they crossed the walkway, he quieted his footsteps on the metal and murmured to Monique, "Whatever they're loading onto this ship at this time of night is top secret. They don't want any tourists or harbour officials getting too close for comfort. We've got to find out what it is; we've got to get into one of the crates..."

They darted across a swath of empty pavement into the shadow of a large stack of crates. The crane swung back and forth in a slow arc as it carried each crate, dismantling the stack one by one. There were perhaps seven or eight left to go. Tintin spotted one sitting apart from the pile, out of the worker's sight. _Perfect, _he thought. He led the trio behind the stack to the lone crate, and worked his fingers around the edge until, with a creak, the wood yielded to reveal its contents.

Inside were about two dozen automatic rifles, once stacked up carefully but after some jostling had fallen into disarray. Tintin immediately identified them as MP-44s, the gun of choice for many armies. _Armies..._ His mind began to race. _Yes, of course. It's just as I thought..._

"This one's next," the voice of a dockyard worker came from not far off, and he was getting closer. Tintin froze. There was nowhere to hide, except...

Snowy gave a small yelp as the lid slammed over their heads, and not a moment too soon. Heavy footsteps were headed their direction. Tintin and Monique frantically fought for space among the rifles, pushing them up against the sides. Cold metal pressed hard on the backs of their necks, sending a chill down Tintin's spine. The worker pushed their box over the concrete, towards where the crates were picked up to be carried onto the ship.

"Ah, they seem to be getting heavier," he wheezed in Chinese.

"Nearly done," another replied. "Okay." The box came to a halt. Tintin heard a 'click-clack-thump' right above their heads, presumably a hook being affixed to the lid, and then the crate swung up into the air.

Monique gasped, then shut her mouth quickly before it could turn into a scream. It wouldn't have mattered much if she'd screamed, anyway; Tintin doubted anyone would've been able to catch her voice through the din of creaking wood and metal on metal as the box swung back and forth violently. Everything tilted, and Snowy yelped as he was buried under a small avalanche of rifles. Tintin tightened his jaw and tried to brace himself against the sides. He was about to suggest Monique do the same when the crate hit its destination, the deck of _The Sea God, _and the stowaways all received an unpleasant bump on the head.

They barely had a moment to catch their breath before more workers approached. Monique clamped a hand over her mouth, chest heaving up and down as she struggled to calm her breath. Her eyes were wide, glittering in the light that filtered through the slats. Tintin wanted to comfort her somehow, but he had no idea what to do, and before he could think much more about it the crate was lifted roughly onto a rolling platform, _a dolly, _thought Tintin. The light shifted as they rolled; they were going down to the hold.

They were dumped unceremoniously onto the concrete floor someplace cold and dimly lit that stank of spoiled food and sawdust. Tintin peered through the slats of their crate. He couldn't make out much in the bad light, but all was still and silent. After about thirty seconds, he let out his breath, prompting Monique to do the same. Snowy dug himself out of the guns and, taking a sniff of the stale air, sneezed indignantly.

Monique still looked like she was going to be ill. "Was... was that the plan?" she asked.

Tintin grimaced. "Not exactly."

She groaned.

He lifted his hands. "Don't panic just yet. I'll find a way out of here. We might have to wait a while... at least until they stop loading cargo."

"Do you think we'll be able to investigate? Figure out any more about Macarthur's plans?"

Tintin smiled. "I already have. Remember what you said back when we were first reading over the letter, about the Verteidiger wanting Macarthur to take over Ricaco for control of the oil? Well, these guns," he hefted one, "cinch it. They're MP-44's, top of the line automatic rifles, the perfect choice for Macarthur's own personal army."

Monique's jaw dropped open slightly. "He's using the Mapaches?"

"Exactly. He wants Ricaco, but he needs manpower, and so he must have struck a deal with the Mapaches. Promised to help them with their revolution, no doubt, in order to garner their suppor-"

He stopped mid-sentence and pricked his ears. He could hear the conversation of a few men, talking in Spanish, and they seemed to be getting closer. The smell of cigarettes cut through the air as their legs came into view, boots coming to a halt not three metres from the crate. There were three of them; _Mapaches, _thought Tintin.

"So, these are the guns the boss has gone through so much trouble to get a hold of?" said one of the men, moving closer towards the crate. Tintin gathered up Snowy in his arms and held his hand over the dog's snout.

"Must be the ones. Not easy getting a hold of weapons like these in wartime, you know," another added.

"_Si_, all those Allied forces snatching up weapons as soon as they're made," said the third.

"But with Macarthur's money, anything is possible." The men all laughed. They were silent for a moment, before the first man began warily;

"I'd like a look at them...just to see what kind of guns we'll be using to establish the new order." He lowered his voice. "Anyone around?"

"No, just us," the second one said.

_"Bueno..."_ the first man chuckled. Tintin caught Monique's eyes, sharing a look of pure panic. _We've only got one option; to fight. _He clenched his fists, and Monique did the same, bracing themselves as the lid slowly creaked open.

* * *

Oh ho ho! *sings* Cliff-hanger! XD Yep they're not having the best of luck at the moment. Oh, I am SO excited to post Chapter 14 - just got to finish Chapter 15 first. Thanks for all your patience, guys, and of course love to every beautiful reviewer... what shall I give you this week? Hm... I'm feeling like... whipping up a batch of delicious cupcakes! *whips them up* Here they are, made with love... and pink frosting, of course!

So... please tell me what you think of the nightmare scene at the beginning of this chapter. I really want your opinion. Was it weird? Out of character? Please let me know in that radical little box. :D Until next time, amigos! *licks frosting off finger and winks*


	14. Trouble

YES! I can FINALLY post this chapter! I'm so happy. :D I won't waste time offering an excuse for my absence (although I assure you it's legitimate.) Whatever you can make up is going to be just as good and probably more exciting. I do want to thank everyone who reviewed, you guys are so amazing, and my new readers, who always make me really happy. Very quickly- **Unemouette: **Thank you so much for the helpful feedback! Yes, that's what I was thinking, and I'm glad I sort of achieved it. Wow, thanks! (Subjective readers are much more fun, you know.) I hope to top it with this one. ;) **booboobethan: **So excited to have another reader - you are awesome. :D To give you an update, I've got an outline for every chapter until the end, but I've only got up through chapter 15 actually written right now. Once I finish chapter 16, I'll post 15, and so on. Thanks for being patient! :)

Alright, enough of that. To the story! This chapter starts directly after the end of chapter 13, so here's the last paragraph in case you might have forgotten what's going on (it's been a while...):

_" "_Bueno..._" the first man chuckled. Tintin caught Monique's eyes, sharing a look of pure panic. _We've only got one option; to fight._ He clenched his fists, and Monique did the same, bracing themselves as the lid slowly creaked open."_

* * *

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TROUBLE

There was a dull groan of wood as the lid opened. Tintin, Monique, and Snowy blinked at the three shocked faces peering in.

The man who'd opened the crate started, "What-" but Tintin was faster. He grabbed one of the rifles and leapt to his feet, pointing the gun from one man to the next.

"Hands up," he said in Spanish. "And don't make a sound." He was trying to assume an intimidating stance, Monique could tell. The Mapaches slowly raised their hands above their heads, looking at each other, then to Tintin, as something slowly worked its way through their minds.

"Wait a second... they don't ship the rifles loaded," said the one who'd opened the crate.

Tintin grimaced. "I was hoping you didn't know that." He shrugged. "Oh, well."

He took the rifle by the barrel and swung the butt towards the nearest thug, catching him on the side of the head. He was shocked and knocked off-balance, but not extinguished. Now the others were readying their fists. Monique snatched up another rifle and got to her feet, swinging it at the closest man. He saw it coming and ducked, then lunged for her. Too close to take a proper swing, Monique got the gun under his chin and pushed upwards with all her might. His teeth clacked together, and he stumbled backwards before falling to the ground and lying still.

Monique turned to see Tintin grappling with the second man, both their hands clamped tightly on the rifle. They pushed it between them, struggling for an advantage, Snowy yipping and snapping at the thug's ankles.

Meanwhile, the third man had come to his senses. He held another gun over Tintin's head, about to bring it down. Monique leapt forward to catch him in time, but tripped as she tried to jump over the edge of the crate. She ended up slamming the rifle into the man's stomach instead. He let out his breath in a mighty '_whoof,' _staggering sideways. Monique landed hard on the concrete.

Tintin finally got the upper hand with his opponent and knocked him to the ground, then turned around and performed the same trick on the final thug, who collapsed at last.

There was a pause, filled by the heavy panting of those still conscious, before Monique struggled to her hands and knees, wincing. Tintin quickly lent her a hand and she stood up.

"There's only way out of here," he said, dropping his rifle.

_Thank God, he's got a plan, _thought Monique as she did the same.

"We run."

All Monique could do was follow as Tintin and Snowy dashed up the ramp towards light. They burst onto the deck, blinded suddenly by the soft yet persistent sun of dawn. Monique found herself blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes so she could see where she running, and nearly tripped over her own feet. _Mierda, _her brain was running too, uselessly; _we're dead, we're dead. We are so dead. _Tintin was headed for the walkway, but it was big ship, and seemed to stretch even further as they ran.

The Mapaches going about their business on the deck stopped dead to watch the teenagers race past. Mayhem hung suspended over the entire ship, as if it were only waiting for the order.

_"Stop them!"_

The order came, and chaos broke just as they reached the walkway. Shouts criss-crossed the grey sky, and the first bullet whizzed over Monique's head. A dozen more gunshots followed in quick succession. Tintin pushed past two men hefting a crate up the walkway, managing a quick "Sorry!" before they were pounding down the metal towards the dockyard. The workers paused whatever they were doing and stared, then dropped their crates and scattered as more bullets came whistling through the air.

_Snipers. _A small flower of panic bloomed inside Monique's chest._ Gotta run, gotta find a place to hide._

They dove behind a row of barrels; safe, but only for the moment. Bullets pinged off their barricade, a cacophony of metal on metal, but the noise barely even registered in Monique's mind. She was scanning what she could see of the dockyard, and found what she was looking for. A car, a little convertible, was parked behind a nearby warehouse, some thirty feet away.

"The car, we've gotta reach it," she panted to Tintin. "It's our only chance." She moved to stand.

"No, Monique, wait-" Tintin said, reaching out to stop her, but she was already up and gone. Her feet flew over black pavement, like a comet across the night sky. _I'm too fast to be hit, _she thought, _I'm a blur. They can't even see me. _She reached the car, then looked back for Tintin. He came up a second later and jumped into the shotgun seat. Snowy joined him, barking back at the ship.

"Drive," Tintin ordered through gritted teeth. Monique stood outside the car, and knew even as she spoke that they were losing time.

"I can't, I don't know how!" She looked back and saw a dozen Mapaches, guns in hand, running down the ship's walkway. "Why can't you?"

Tintin lifted his eyes to hers. "Get in the driver's seat, Monique. Now."

There was something wrong; pain barely concealed in his voice, but the gunshots kept coming and there was no time to understand. All Monique knew was that she had to do this thing, this one thing, right now. She got behind the wheel and followed Tintin's orders robotically; _turn the key, shift into drive. Put the pedal down._ The car rushed forwards, faster than Monique had expected. She spun the wheel, and the tires gave an angry screech as they whirled around the corner of the warehouse.

"Where are we going?" Monique had to shout over the noise of the engine. She thought she heard the revving of other cars behind them, but she wasn't sure.

"Just keep driving!" Tintin yelled back. Monique risked a look over her shoulder. The Mapaches were nowhere to be seen.

"Eyes on the road," said Tintin, then let out a weak groan. Monique ignored the order and glanced over at him. Her breath caught in her throat.

He was pulling his shirt off, over his head, leaving his side unprotected for one painful second before the shirt was in his hands, and he clutched it to his wound, face contorted in pain. A second was all she needed to see the blood. All down his side the colour deepened, filling the folds of the shirt quickly.

Monique turned her head forwards again and quelled the scream bubbling up her throat. "Tintin. Where do I go?" she asked. Her voice was surprisingly calm and even.

They were out of the dockyards now. She turned onto a main road, lined on both sides by shops and apartment buildings. The bellow of a car horn snapped her attention back forwards again, to see the massive grill of a semi-truck bearing down on them.

"To the left," Tintin burst, and Monique spun into the other lane at the last second, just in time to let the truck rumble past. Her palms were slick with sweat, and she swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

"They drive... on the left side of the road here," said Tintin.

"I can't do this," said Monique.

"Yes, you can."

"I'm going to get us killed!" Her voice rose, panicked.

"No, you won't. I'm right here. Just listen to me."

"Okay." She took a deep breath. "Okay," she said again, and tightened her grip on the wheel. She'd figured out how to regulate the speed by not pressing quite so hard on the gas, and slowed as they reached an intersection.

"Brake," said Tintin. She slammed her foot on the brake, pitching them all forwards.

Suddenly, angry shouts and the screech of tires reverberated off the buildings around them, and Tintin turned, with much difficulty, to see where the noise came from.

"It's the Mapaches, isn't it?"

He nodded, and lifted an arm to point ahead, then winced and brought it back down. "Drive between the lanes and through the intersection," he said. "We're small enough... but they aren't, they've got Jeeps."

Monique obeyed, gunning the engine, and raced straight down the yellow line. Now she could hear the Jeeps, tearing through traffic after the convertible. She pressed her foot down even harder and sped through the intersection, leaving a cacophony of car horns and the shouts of angry bicyclists in their wake.

"Don't go straight. Turn," said Tintin, and she did, pealing out of the intersection down between another pair of lanes. A storm of gunfire burst over their heads like a sudden crack of lightning. The Jeeps had caught up, and Monique could just picture the gunmen standing up, resting their elbows on the windshield, peering down their sights to get a better shot.

"_Dios mio_, they're at it again," she muttered, then said much louder, "Tintin, what do I do?"

There was no response. Monique spun the wheel again, even more frantically this time, and ended up in the lane of a more empty street. She looked over at him.

He'd slumped against the door, eyes closed. His shirt, soaked with blood, had fallen from his grasp, allowing his wound to gush freely. Blood seeped into the seat all down his side, outlining his limp form. Monique pushed his arm. She wanted to punch him in the face.

"Tintin, talk to me. _Tintin!"_

She felt like she was going to be sick. Tears were pushing at the corners of her eyes now, but she blinked them away, because she had to see the goddamn road, right? She had to keep driving, whatever happened. The shots came again, right behind her, too close. Monique put her foot down again, and listened for what was sure to come next.

The mournful wail of police sirens tore through the gunshots, and flashing lights tossed their reflections into the glass storefronts Monique saw as she passed. _Here they come, _she thought. She glanced over her shoulder. The Mapaches were advancing. Three Jeeps, and behind them a dozen police cars. _And one little convertible. _Monique made another tight turn, angling past the lines of traffic, and scanned the buildings of brick and stone for a gap, not too wide and not too narrow.

_There it is. _If she'd had a hand free she would have crossed herself, for luck, to cash in any credit she might still have with God. She hadn't crossed herself, or prayed in church, for that matter, since she was eight years old.

It was a dead end.

Monique slowed for a moment. _Give 'em time... _and then once she heard the Jeeps she gunned it. Straight for the red brick wall. The Jeeps came in behind her, single file because they couldn't fit side by side. The sirens howled close behind.

Right before she reached the wall, at the last possible second, Monique took a hold of the wheel and spun it as fast as she could. The car whirled so quickly the left side lifted up for a whole second, then slammed back down as the turn was completed. Monique ran the engine for all it was worth out of the alley. She made it into the street just as the police cars came up. They turned as they braked, forming a barrier at the entrance to the alley, and came out of their cars shouting, wielding their guns.

Meanwhile, the little red convertible made its way back into the normal flow of traffic. Keeping to the left.

Monique exhaled. The Mapaches wouldn't be getting out of that any time soon. She turned off the main street as soon as she could, down a side road with a couple dimly lit storefronts and a dumpster. She pulled the convertible up to the curb and flicked the key down, then turned to the silent boy beside her.

"Tintin. Come on. You gotta wake up." She tugged at his arm and opened her mouth to speak again, then closed it. She put her fingers to his neck, and pressed them into his cool skin, waiting. Hoping. Snowy, at his feet, was silent, with a reverent expression.

Then she felt it; a heartbeat, pushing however weakly at her touch. Monique let out her breath in an audible gasp, and really did cross herself this time, letting the tears fall down her cheeks for one weak moment. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped her cheeks angrily.

She got out of the car and opened Tintin's door, gathering him into her arms. She grunted and struggled, he was an awkward weight, and heavy_. _Snowy hopped out and barked at her feet.

"Shush, Snowy, you're not helping," she scolded him, hearing her voice grow weak with threatening tears. Her mind raced through the ever-shrinking list of options. _Go back to the dock and get the Captain. But where is it? How far did I drive? There's no way I could retrace my steps now. _

She looked up and down the street. _A hospital. I need someone. Anyone._

"You there. Girl."

Her ears pricked, and her eyes fell upon the store she'd parked in front of; a small, red-bricked building squeezed between the neighbouring shops like an afterthought. An old man stood in the doorway, furrowing his silver brow as he considered her.

"What is wrong? You need help?"

Monique nodded. "Yes, sir. My friend, he's hurt. He's been shot. And I... I can't help him." The man had spoken to her in English; Monique could only hope he understood.

The man shuffled down the steps to the car. He looked Tintin over. "He lost much blood. But alive... I help him. You help now, carry boy inside."

"Thank you, thank you so much." Monique composed herself, allowing the man to take Tintin by the feet, and they carried him up the steps and through the door. For such a dark, unassuming storefront, the interior was unexpected. Monique thought of the word apothecary, but had no idea if it applied, as she looked up at the herbs hanging from the ceiling, the shelves on the walls lined with bottles and jars. Snowy would have been sniffing at it all, but at the moment his only focus was his master. He trotted after them soberly.

The man led them through another doorway to a back room, and directed Monique to lay Tintin on a long wooden table in the centre. She set his head down gently, and shivered to see him lying there, cold and still. His face was a sickly colour. Pale as dawn's light. Monique felt something twist inside her, a hard knot of worry, and she swallowed.

The old man donned an apron. He laid his thin, knobbly hands on Tintin's stomach, wrinkling his mouth in concentration.

"Thank you," Monique said again.

He looked up. "Thank me when he wakes."

Monique nodded, taking Tintin's hand in hers and rubbing her thumb over his palm, over and over, each time a tiny prayer in his name.

* * *

Woah. There we are. Really not sure what you guys will think of this sudden turn. I want to assure you that I still love you all dearly, even though that was a nasty cliff hanger. I do post it with a small twinge of guilt (...small). Hopefully you will still leave me a review! *singing* Every little word you write is magic, every little word just turns me on... ;D (If you know that song, yay! I love it. It's been stuck in my head all day.) But gosh, what kind of virtual treat could possibly make up for shooting Tintin? Seven-layer chocolate cake. It's the best I can do. *licks batter off spoon sorrowfully*

Pretty please leave a review, and then we can all have some cake! :D Catch you on the flip side!


	15. Falling

*Emerges with notebook held up over face to protect from raging readers* Hehehe- Hi, guys! Long time no see! *dodges tomato* Uh... first off, I want to apologise for my absence. Writer's block, school, piano, choir, top-secret intelligence missions - you get the gist. But I swear, every second I wasn't writing I was aching to get back to it. This story has me wrapped around its pinky finger. And I was inspired to ignore all other obligations (homework, sleep, basic hygiene) and get my rear in gear to figure out this chapter because of your guys' overwhelming encouragement. That was a record 19 reviews last chapter! *applause* I want to thank all of you individually, but for those I couldn't reach by PM you'll find a response in the author's notes at the end of this chapter because there were so many :'D and I hope you all want me to shut up and get on with the story now.

This chapter randomly re-uploaded because I remembered what I forgot last time. I wanted to give a quick shout out to luvAdventure123 for being awesome! :D Everyone should definitely check out her story "The Adventures of Tintin: The Gypsy Affair." She's got a promising beginning to what looks like a great Tintin/OC story.

Now back to your regularly scheduled programming. Chapter 15! Prepare yourselves.

* * *

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

FALLING

Tintin was tugged out of a feverish dream, a nightmare world of ascending and descending staircases leading nowhere. He blinked, and regretted it immediately as his mind flooded with light. A familiar pain blossomed in his side, scattering white stars across his vision. He groaned, pulling himself out of the darkness, and realised he had been awoken by a cool damp cloth someone was dabbing across his forehead.

He blinked again, and met Monique's gaze, hovering over him. Her eyes lit up.

"Mm... Monique?" he croaked. His throat felt like sandpaper.

"Hi, there." She smiled with tired eyes. "How're you feeling?"

"Er... I'll get back to you on that." He swatted away the cloth and sat up, forcing the fuzziness from the corners of his eyes to take stock of the room. It was small, yet crammed to the ceiling with shelf upon shelf of jars, pots, various tools, and lumpy paper sacks. The storage room of a shop, he guessed. He lay on a wooden operating table; Monique perched on a stool alongside. He breathed in, and the dusty scent of plants and spices tickled his dry throat. A lightning bolt shot through his side suddenly, and he clutched the wound, wincing. It had been cleaned and covered with a piece of absorbent cotton. Gauze, wrapped once around his torso, held it in place. He wondered absently where his shirt was, before Monique spoke.

"We're in the back room of some medicinal herb store, in case you're wondering. Mr. Kwan, he owns this place, he's the one who fixed you up. He's in the front, I think."

"Ah." Tintin sat up further, resting back on his hands. He could sense questions darting just beneath the surface of his mind, struggling to break through obscurity. _Perhaps this Mr. Kwan gave me something for my pain_, he thought.

"Oh, that's right." Monique stood and took a roll of gauze from a nearby table. "He told me to finish bandaging you when you woke up."

Tintin reached out a hand. "Here, I can do it."

She held the gauze out of his reach. "Mr. Kwan gave the job to _me_. And besides," she gave him a look, "you seem a little out of it."

Tintin shrugged. "If you insist."

Monique nodded, assuming a grave expression, and rolled out some gauze. She began to wrap it around his stomach, but didn't get very far before Tintin put his hands on hers, directing them.

"No, you have to tuck the end bit under this one, like so-"

She frowned. "I can figure it out. It's not brain surgery."

Tintin chuckled, leaning back again. He glanced down at the floor, where Snowy stood, panting at him earnestly. "Hello there, Snowy," he said. The dog gave him a happy bark.

"He's been all worried about you," said Monique. "Whining and pacing around. And me too, of course. I've been worried, too."

"Whining and pacing around?"

"Why don't you be a good patient and shut up?"

Tintin smiled and went silent, eyes coming to rest on her. Her brow was furrowed slightly, eyes sharpened, gently guiding the gauze over his skin. A golden sort of shine caught the light on her cheek, sweat perhaps, or tears long since scrubbed dry.

"Well?" she said after a moment, and Tintin gave a little jump, thinking she'd caught him staring at her. But she went on, "Aren't you interested to hear how I got away from the Mapaches?"

"I thought I was supposed to be shutting up," he returned, but to be honest, he'd forgotten all about them.

"I'm telling you anyway. I led them into a dead end that only a car as small as mine could turn around in. Then I made tracks, and they were caught. By then the police were after us, but I went right past them; they were more interested in the big scary foreigners with guns."

"Good work," Tintin said, and meant it.

Monique gave him her small, proud smile and returned to her task. Her every movement was deliberate, careful. Tintin felt his skin shiver when she touched him, as if there was an electric charge in her fingertips. It was not an entirely unpleasant sensation.

"Does it still hurt?" she asked quietly.

"A little," he said with a light sigh. "I've had worse."

"Mr. Kwan said the bullet only grazed you, or it would've been really bad."

"There's luck for you."

"I don't think it's lucky at all." Her voice broke a little, and she cleared her throat. "I mean, I shouldn't have forced you to run out in the open."

"It's alright. It wasn't your fault." He put a hand on her shoulder, and she glanced up, startled by his sudden touch. Tintin was stunned for a moment. Her eyes glittered, lamplight caught in the gathering tears like diamonds. He swallowed and took his hand away, acutely aware of how close they were. "I mean, if anything, it was mine. I'm the one who got us into that crate in the first place." He tried to smile.

Her mouth tightened, eyes burning into his. "Stop doing that. Stop trying to make like it's nothing. You could have died." Her voice had lost any trace of weakness, biting off each syllable.

Tintin raised an eyebrow. "Nice to know you care," he said dryly.

"Yeah, well, whatever." She went back to wrapping the gauze. There was a bitter determination in the turn of her head, her hands leading the bandage around him in a careful dance. "I'm almost done," she added.

It took all of Tintin's will not to leap off the table and force her to meet his eyes. He couldn't stand this game much longer. What was she playing at? Was she sorry, or not? He knew he should say something to diffuse the tension, crack a joke, anything to reassure her. _But what?_

No clear answer came to him, and so he lapsed into guilty silence, knowing that whatever he could say would be the wrong thing. _Hopeless sort of case._

Monique tied off the last bit of bandage and stepped back. She handed him a plain white cotton shirt from a nearby shelf. Tintin put it on slowly, careful not to disturb his side. He slid down off the table and turned to give her a hopeful smile.

"Thanks. For um, you know... bandaging me." _Crumbs, I sound like an idiot. She ought to have bandaged my mouth instead._

Monique gave him a fierce look. For a moment Tintin thought he'd done something wrong. But before he could react, she leapt forwards and threw her arms around his shoulders, pressing herself into his chest. Tintin widened his eyes, stiffening slightly, before he found himself smiling, and realised he wanted nothing more than to return her embrace. Just hold her, here in this small, unfamiliar room.

He'd barely wrapped his arms around her when she let go and stepped back quickly, clearing her throat. "Uh, sorry. Didn't mean to do that."

Tintin felt heat crawling up his neck. "It's alright."

She refused to meet his gaze, crossing her arms over her chest. "You-you just scared me, that's all." She shrugged.

"I'm fine, Monique. See?" He reached out and touched her arm gently. She cringed and twisted out of his reach.

"Alright, then, be like that." Tintin was tired of trying to play her at her own game. He had a headache, and the room was much too small. He sat back down on the operating table heavily.

She shot him a scowl. "You're so hard to read, you know that?"

He scoffed without meaning to. "_I'm _so hard to read? That's a bit rich, coming from you. What's the matter, anyway?"

"Like it's any of your damn business!"

Tintin threw up his hands. "See what I mean? I'm just trying to talk, and you bite me. I'm not looking for a fight."

"Neither am I," she snapped.

"Good."

An awkward moment passed. Tintin bit his lip. _If neither of us are looking for a fight, how come we're fighting? _He decided to try another approach. Softening his voice, he said, "Monique, listen. I know this is all new to you, and I understand if you're frightened..."

"Oh, I get it now." She smiled without humour, nodding. "I'm frightened, am I? Like the weak, defenceless little amateur I am?"

"That is _not _what I meant-"

"Look, I know you'd love to be the big-shot here, but I've been around this block a few times, you know. You might remember I survived on my own for about a month there in Buenos Aires before we met."

"I don't doubt for a moment you were quite the capable street urchin, but this is different."

"Oh my god, I can't stand you!" She threw her arms up, all but yelling. "You condescending little-"

Tintin stood and grabbed her by the forearms, whirling her to face him.

"Monique, stop." His voice was quiet but firm. He held her still, and they both panted for a moment, staring each other down. Monique bit her lip, setting her chin hard. Her scowl didn't quite reach her eyes, however, the edges softening like melted ice. Tintin loosened his grip but didn't release her, as if by holding her there he could somehow wrench the truth from her gaze.

"Just stop, alright?" he murmured. The space between them could be counted with his fingertips. His heartbeat quickened. Monique seemed to sense this, too. She looked wild to him suddenly, as if she could eat him up and spit him out and lick her fingers afterwards.

And still he never could have expected what she did next.

She shut her eyes and closed the space between them faster than he could take a breath. Their lips touched, like birds wing and wing over the clouds, the briefest of connections.

Tintin stumbled backwards, breaking them apart, and nearly fell over the operating table. The blood rushed to his head so quickly it dizzied him, his neck and cheeks flushing scarlet. Monique stared at him, mouth agape.

"I... er... y-you..." Tintin managed, though he was certain the circuit from his brain to his mouth had shorted out.

"_Mierda__," _Monique breathed.

He could only shake his head slowly. "Y-you... I don't understand..."

"Dammit, Tintin! Just shut up, will you?" she burst, then put her hand to her head. "God, I'm sorry. I gotta get out of here."

"Wait, Monique-"

She turned on her heels, ignoring him, and had nearly reached the door leading into the front room when it swung open suddenly. Monique ran straight into a squat, elderly Chinese man on his way in. He stumbled back a few steps, with a polite "Ah!" and adjusted his glasses. Monique stepped away and scowled fiercely at nothing in particular. Tintin stepped forwards to greet the man, blushing enough for the both of them.

"Ah, no intend to interrupt." The man nodded to Monique and turned to Tintin. He lifted his silver brow and gave him a wide smile. The wrinkles around his mouth, formed from years of pursing his lips as he worked, straightened out. "I come to see you, boy. You awake. Good."

"You must be Mr. Kwan." Tintin held out a hand, and they shook. "I understand you've saved my life. I can't thank you enough, sir." He pulled a calm exterior out of nowhere, maintaining an easy smile while on the inside his heart was hammering enough to beat the band.

The man waved a hand. "Nothing, boy."

They both gave Monique a wary glance. She glared at the floor with a passion, mouth set hard, arms tight by her sides. Mr. Kwan took this in, then gave Tintin a nod, patting him on the shoulder.

"Come with me. I give you something to heal the skin, come."

With a hand on his back, Mr. Kwan steered Tintin into the front room. Snowy followed, a bit frightened of Monique's volatility. Tintin managed to toss one last appeal in Monique's direction, desperate for an explanation, before Mr. Kwan closed the door, but she had turned away. The door slammed shut. Tintin sighed.

Mr. Kwan shuffled away behind a counter to a row of shelves stacked up the height of the wall. He scanned them, muttering to himself, before locating a small green pot with triumph. He plucked it off the shelf and came back around to present it to Tintin.

"When you change bandage, put this around wound. Stop infection and heal the skin. Smell nice, too," he added as he tucked the jar into Tintin's palm.

"Thank you," said Tintin. "I only wish there was something I could do for you in return."

"No need, boy. I only stop the blood, is all." He gave Tintin a wry look. "You promise to stay away from who give you that, yes?" He gestured to Tintin's side, then showed his palms. "I ask no questions. I only fix up after, what do I know?"

Tintin breathed in sharply through his nose. "It's a bit of a long story in any case."

The man nodded, and turned away to busy himself behind the counter, chopping up a sweet-smelling leaf. "You lucky," he said.

Tintin had turned to examine the shelves with vague interest. He gave a slight nod. "So I've been told."

But Mr. Kwan wasn't finished. "... to have nice, brave girlfriend. She by your side whole time."

Tintin whirled back around. "Oh no, she's not- I mean, I'm sure she was, but not as my girlfriend. We're working together, just friends." _At least until a minute ago._

"You fight like lovebird," observed Mr. Kwan.

Tintin let out a nervous chuckle. "Well, we had a... um, a little misunderstanding is all. I'm sure it'll blow over soon."

Mr. Kwan looked up and caught his eyes. "You not sure." When Tintin said nothing, he gestured towards the door with his knife. "Go talk to her."

Tintin shook his head. "It's really not that simple, you see..."

"Say sorry," said Mr. Kwan, matter-of-factly. "Then you make okay and go, and no one know you are here." This was polite, but pointed, and for some reason lighted a flicker of panic in Tintin's chest. The room had become strangely suffocating, the thick cloying scent of herbs making his mind spin. He felt as if he was waiting for the peace to settle, but it wouldn't, and the world was about to pull the rug out from under him again. The silence held something, waiting.

A brazen knock hit the front door. All three heads swung towards the sound.

"Who at door? I close shop. No expect visitor," said Mr. Kwan, confused. He came around the counter, wiping his fingers on his apron. Another knock came, louder, but Mr. Kwan remained still, gazing at the door. Mild fear lined his eyes.

The panic was real now. A tide of blood rushed over Tintin's brain in dizzying waves. He noticed Snowy standing right in front of the door, gazing up at it as the hinges shook again.

"Snowy, boy, what are you doing?" he spoke around a thick tongue. The dog turned and barked, and then the door exploded.

That was what Tintin thought at first, as Snowy yipped in shock and darted out of the way, wood splinters cascading over the floor. The hinges screeched and gave way. Two men in tan uniforms burst into the room, boots crunching on sawdust, sudden sunlight parting their towering forms.

_They've found us, _thought Tintin. The next second he was charging towards them, even as a gunshot split the air. He spun on his heels to see if the bullet had found its target, but Mr. Kwan had vanished. The Mapache who'd fired the shot didn't seem to care. His disquieting eyes were now turned to Tintin; same as the other thug, a man with bristly cheeks wielding a black club. The clean shaven of the two vanished from Tintin's line of vision, and only when he felt arms around his neck did he understand what was about to happen. He struggled in the man's iron grip, to no avail.

"So you want me alive, now?" He tried to strengthen his voice, pretending to a confidence he didn't feel. "I appreciate the change of heart, but I don't know why you bother."

The last word dissolved into a growl as Tintin kicked backwards at the thug's leg and connected with the sweet spot just below the kneecap, sending the man to one knee with a gasp. The club hovered above Tintin's head, coming down towards him. He reached up and grabbed it, then twisted it violently to one side. The taller, unshaven Mapache grunted as his arm was bent the wrong direction, and Tintin took advantage of this momentary weakness to tug the club from his grip.

But the taller thug packed plenty of power in his fists alone. He knew this and Tintin knew this, so Tintin couldn't quite explain why he didn't duck fast enough before the fist reached the side of his head. He staggered sideways, agony dancing in gorgeous white lights across his vision.

Tintin forced his eyes to stay open, but still the world refused to yield to him any sense of direction. He struck out blindly with all the force he could put behind the club, and by sheer dumb luck caught the taller Mapache right under his chin. His jaws clacked together, and he crumpled to the floor.

_The other one, _Tintin thought faintly. He tried to turn and face the man, but the ground swung up unexpectedly and caught him on his knees. He felt his lungs constricting, and had to focus on taking in air while his side screamed for mercy. _Must've reopened the wound, _he thought, with the bitter calm that accompanies defeat._ Crumbs, here we go._

He braced himself for the familiar leaden feeling of unconsciousness. He heard, like a thunderclap right over his head, what sounded like the roof collapsing. The reverberation sent dust billowing up from the floor. And yet, inexplicably, Tintin remained kneeling and very much awake.

He pulled his eyes open to see the shelf that had been covering the entire left wall lying on its side in front of him, contents shattered in an overwhelming cloud. The bodies of the two Mapaches lay still, trapped underneath. Mr. Kwan stood on the other side of the shelf, his plump chest heaving up and down, perspiration glowing on his brow. He wasn't looking at Tintin; he was looking at his shelf in quiet dismay.

"I'm sorry," said Tintin. At least, the voice was familiar, though much too distant to be his. He pulled his feet back under him in what suddenly seemed like a balancing act.

"You go. Go now, please," said Mr. Kwan in a tinny voice. He was not angry, but terrified, and Tintin nodded. Had he been thinking, he would've said something else. As it was, he could barely reach the door to the back room.

Had he been thinking, he would've known what he was going to see before he flung the door open, and stumbled into silence.

The door bounced off the wall with an empty thud.

"Monique," Tintin gasped.

There had been a struggle. It took him a full two seconds to deduce that much, from the toppled operating table and gauze unrolled across the floor. A scalpel lay on the ground with blood glistening on its blade. Tintin took all this in with the careful, useless urgency of a mystery already solved.

A hallway he hadn't noticed before spilled light into the room, leading towards day. He dashed down it, and the open doorway spit him onto hot pavement under a midday tropic sun. It was a back alley, narrow, hemmed in by tall brick walls. There was no one to be seen. Heat buzzed in his ears, a distant city murmur.

"Monique!" he called again. He stepped forwards and the smell of burnt diesel slapped him. He looked down at his feet. A lead weight dropped through his stomach as he realised he stood upon a fresh pool of oil, still warm. It had dripped from the tailpipe of a Jeep only seconds before.

Only seconds before had they stalled here. They found what they'd come for and now they were gone. Mere seconds, precious seconds, and he'd missed them.

A heavy, bitter taste coated his tongue. He swallowed. Adrenaline still prickled his skin, heartbeat crashing like an ocean in his ears. Somewhere in his throbbing head, he felt dim sympathy for Mr. Kwan, who would spend weeks fixing his shop, and wouldn't stop looking over his shoulder for months after that.

_ There's nothing for it, _Tintin thought. An optimistic voice piped up, encouraging him to try to tail the Jeep. But no amount of hope could stir him; he knew, deep down, it was too late. He closed his eyes, swaying on his feet, and might've passed out completely had Snowy not piped up with an urgent bark. Tintin blinked and glanced down at the dog. With a weak nod of conviction, he realised he knew what to do.

"We have to get back to the Captain, Snowy," he said. "Tell him M- ...tell him what happened." Tintin put his finger to his lips, and they came down bloody.

He wished he could still taste the kiss. _Or whatever it was._

Snowy pulled his attention back to the real world, trotting forwards as he led his master back into the city, where heat waves shimmered like tripwires over the pavement ahead.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

* * *

Ooooh I just got a cold chill of delight that I'm posting this. At long last! But poor Tintin. Kid can't catch a break. Especially not when I've got a hold of him. So? Please tell me what you think of this chapter. The good, the bad, the ugly, I want to hear it all. What are your thoughts on the kiss? Tell me honestly *drops to my knees* I'm begging you. I will give you a freshly roasted s'more (got s'mores on the brain after a campfire we had tonight) with a strawberry smushed into the marshmallow (it's the most delicious thing, have you ever tried it?) Come on. Who can resist a s'more... ah, crumbs. Just set it on fire. *huffs and puffs to blow it out*

And now to anonymous reviewers last chapter. YOU ARE ALL BEAUTIFUL PLEASE EAT THIS CAKE. *offers all a delicious slice* Unless you don't like cake. In which case, I also have burnt marshmallows. Okay so- **Seven: **Aww thank you! Haha it's nice to know someone besides me appreciates rambling author's notes. :P I doubt most people read them, so thanks! **Orangefur: **Yeah, Captain Haddock is just kind of hanging out at the dock right now... don't worry, we'll see him again soon. Not next chapter, but soon. Yes, they'll live another day... probably... Hehe anyway, thanks! ;) **booboobethan: **Yay! thanks so much! :) **Peggy: **Wow, I'm really flattered that you'd even ask that, but I'm not quite there yet. Not to say a sequel hasn't been knocking on my story ideas door, but I might get to the end and decide I'm done telling their story. We shall see... thanks for expressing interest! Uh oh, I'm a murderer now! *ducks police searchlights and dashes off* **FreeRunner93: **Thank _you! _Your review was so beautiful, I couldn't stop grinning while I read it! I worry that because of my lack of updates people think I don't care about this story, but you understand, which really means a lot. And that I've inspired you, at least a little bit, to write your own story? Oh my gosh I can't tell you how amazing that is because, a year ago, the first Tintin fanfic I ever read (The Case of the Fairytale Hoax by x X. x Narnian-Queen-Of-Fire x. X x) inspired me to write _this_. It's a beautiful cycle of inspiration. So good luck with your story! I can't wait to read it! :) **Mad: **You mad, bro? :D Just kidding! Heh. **Ladeedadapinkado: **No no I haven't! I'm just working really hard to make it good for you guys! Don't cry... *hands over tissue* Scooby dooby doo, where are you, we've got some work to do now...! *singing* **Chocoegg333: **Yes I know I'm sorry! Thanks for caring. :) **Omgimsoomadupdat: **No, I promise you there's much more to come. :) Thanks for caring enough to be mad at me, that actually makes me happy! **Mariam: **Thank you so much. :) You'll get the rest of it, I promise.

Phew! Needless to say, you guys are incredible. I never could have imagined so much love for this story in a million years. Hopefully you love it enough to put up with me for 17 more chapters. I've got it outlined for ch. 16-32, although that may shrink. I know, it's so long! (Nearly as long as this author's note.) Augh. I hope I didn't just scare away everyone, but I wanted to be honest about what you're getting into here. This story is a monster. I should know. It's mad at me because I didn't finish Ch. 16 before posting this. (hahaha!) In any case, please consider a word or two of response to this crazy little chapter. After all, I've got s'mores...


	16. Unmasked

Hey, hey, hey! It's another update, finally! I am so sorry everyone, especially after all of your awesome support, but I hit some plot-related roadblocks. It's summer "whoo!" and I'm posting "whoo!" so I should be happy but in all honesty I'm _terrified _to be putting up this chapter, partly because I think Chapter 15 was misleading. It wasn't exactly supposed to be romantic like "they finally got together!" :/ I messed it up somehow, but I'm working through it, so thanks for sticking this out with me. No matter what happens, it's good to be posting again. A big hug (and s'mores!) to all the reviewers last chapter - I loved every single one! Unfortunately, I've run out of time and space to respond to the anonymous reviews in my author's notes. Just know that every review is read and loved, and if you'd like a response, please sign in! :)

Historical Note: If you pay more attention to world history than I do, you will have noticed some inconsistencies concerning their time in Sanya, China. It's too late for any changes now, and I don't feel _too_ bad considering this is fiction and reality doesn't always fit with my story world, but Herge set a high standard for quality of research and because of that, I swear to do better in the future. But this note is actually about giving due respect to the lives lost during the Japanese occupation of China during WWII (which I didn't include in my story.) It was a terrible time in their history and I just want to take a moment to recognise it.

Okay! I now give you Chapter 16, for better or for worse...

* * *

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

UNMASKED

Monique's eyes snapped open, and consciousness filled her like a waterfall into a teacup. For a second she was still scrambling to escape a crumbling nightmare, and moved her hands reflexively. Her wrists hit rope. In sudden panic she struggled in her bonds and flung her gaze around the room, trying to take in everything at once.

She was tied up tight around her wrists, chest, and ankles to a chair plunked dead centre in a cavernous empty room. A warehouse of some kind, she figured, from the corrugated steel roof and rafters overhead. Tall grey walls hemmed in a vast concrete floor, making her feel like she was trapped in an icebox.

Trapped and alone. _God, _she thought, _I hope the Mapaches don't take their sweet time dealing with me. I have to know what they want. _Monique bit her lip. _Tintin got away. That must be it. Why else would I still be alive?_

The adrenaline thinned, and pain came bursting through to take its place. The thugs hadn't taken any chances with her. There was a deep slice in her shoulder, a burning grin carved into her flesh, where they'd turned the scalpel she grabbed against her. She could see, out of the corner of her eye, the dark stain of dried blood.

No matter how much she tried to shut him out, Tintin clung to her thoughts. The rip of scarlet soaking his shirt, the fight, and his mouth against hers, warm and strange, before he'd broken away.

Monique's heart clenched, a pain worse than anything else. _Where had that kiss come from? _Some wild, uncharted track of her mind, and that was the worst of all. Maybe it was the glint in Tintin's eyes, the hard line his mouth made when he was confused. He wanted to figure out what made her tick.

_ Well that is never gonna happen._

Monique filled her lungs with stale air and exhaled. _Okay, I need to get it together. I'm stuck in this mess because I let those shysters sneak up on me when I was distracted. I can't be distracted. I gotta remember the plan. Tintin is just a part of the plan. Just a part of the plan... just a..._

She realised a piece of her hated him. His gentle words, _yes, trying to be _so _understanding,_ it was all a thin film over what he really felt. She'd kissed him and now everything had gone to hell. His face as he'd backed away from her, stained with disgust, was stamped in her mind forever. After all, how could she have forgotten? Tintin still saw her as the girl sleeping in the cabinet, a homely street creature he had the charity to take under his wing. _I'll never be more than that to him._

_ Do I want to be?_ Monique looked up to ceiling, searching for something she couldn't find. An ache dug into her stomach, and it wasn't just where they'd hit her. A nub of frustration grew there, like an invasive vine, curling out and around her limbs. She quit struggling.

_No. Tintin's not my advantage anymore. _The truth came like a pin to her lungs, and suddenly she had to focus on breathing._ He's my weakness. Only I can't let Macarthur know that._

Monique pulled into herself and tried to focus her energy; she knew she had to be ready for whatever came next.

She was not expecting to feel warmth against her face. It was almost pleasant, like the sun, though there were no windows for any sun to come through. Then it came again, rhythmic. Curious, Monique unclenched her heart and looked up.

Inches from her face a pair of winter-sky-grey eyes stared at her with fascination, belonging to a man with a square jaw and close-cropped dark hair. She gasped.

"Did you miss me, darling?" Macarthur stood, stretching out to his full, imposing height. He wore a clean-cut black suit, and grinned down his lapel at her. "Is that why you've followed me the world over, from Brazil, to Araby, to China? I'm flattered, really I am."

Monique's first instinct was to knock him one. Her hands made fists and stayed there, uselessly rubbing against the rope. She glanced at the main door. Two Mapaches in full uniform had appeared on either side, guns resting on their shoulders, looking tough. She was relieved to find she recognised neither of them.

She looked up to face Macarthur, and tried to keep her cool. "Where's Tintin?"

The man's grin loosened. "He's not here. He proved a bit more slippery than anticipated. But no matter. We'll soon change that, with your help."

Monique relaxed. "Yeah, good luck with that," she scoffed. Now she knew what he wanted, she could withhold it from him.

Macarthur began to pace around her chair with slow, agonising strides. "I recall a month ago, we met in Buenos Aires, shortly after I'd arrived there. You were in your Uncle Leon's office when I first discussed things with him. I remember thinking how strange it was that he'd let a child overhear our conversation."

Monique ignored the 'child' comment and set her chin hard. "He's known me since I was eight. He trusts me."

Macarthur shrugged. "Not anymore. And neither does Alex."

Her heart skipped a beat. "Alex? Where is he? Have you been talking to him? Is he alright?"

Macarthur's sly smirk returned. He showed his palms. "Don't lose your wig there, darling. I'll give you what you ask in due time."

She scoffed. "I'm not asking anything from you."

"Oh, but aren't you?" He stopped pacing and faced her. "Why are you here?"

"Because your filthy grunts grabbed me, you rat."

He shook his head. "No. I mean, why are you here in China? Why have you put up with that insufferable ginger pipsqueak for the past month? Why did you want to follow us to Brazil in the first place?"

Monique weighed his words carefully. She felt a sick dread clawing at her stomach. _What's he getting at? What does he know? _She managed to keep her bluff. "Because I knew what you were planning. I wanted to stop you."

"Ah, ah..." He gave her a sing-song taunt, shaking his finger. "You've been naughty, haven't you? Telling lies." His gaze was fixed on her like the eye of a storm, a calm void. "It was a trick question, darling. I know the answer."

Her heart was hammering in her ears loud enough to drown out all coherent thought. "Alright, so it's not the _only_ reason-"

He raised a hand, imitating an oath. "I want to hear the whole truth and nothing but the truth. From your lips."

Monique tried to calm her breath, block out the panic rising in her chest, but she couldn't. She was stuck like a caged bird, in this empty room, the walls moving slowly inwards to crush her.

"So I followed my brother!"

The words burst like breaking a dam, and then the rest came rushing out. "I wanted to find him and make him see reason, make him leave you and your damn wolf pack. Alex... he's all I have. I just want him to be safe." Her voice rose, choking her throat. "Is that enough for you? Was I so wrong?" She shot Macarthur with every ounce of hate she could, willing him to drop down dead before her waiting eyes.

"Not at all, my dear." The man gave her an indulgent smile. "This isn't about right or wrong. To be honest, I admire your dogged loyalty. It isn't your fault you went to the wrong person."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Monique raced to keep up with him. To come out on top of this she had to know what he wanted a second before he asked it. "You're talking about Tintin?"

Macarthur nodded, tilting his head. "You thought he could lead you to your brother and deliver you both safe and sound into your blue-skied future? He's just a kid, darling, just as naïvely hopeful as you are. This is out of his league."

"You don't even know him." Monique punctuated this with a violent struggle against the ropes. She wasn't sure where he was going with this, but she knew she had to escape before he got there.

"I know enough," Macarthur moved away, turning to give the walls a lazy sweep with his eyes. "Reporters are all the same. Big-namers are even worse. A little success and suddenly they think they can change the course of history." His eyes glazed for a moment, smile absent. He came back to himself and continued, "You know, I pride myself on my ability as a negotiator. It's what I do; I compromise. Got a knack for finding a way to let everyone get what they want, including me."

He came down into a sudden crouch right in front of Monique, making her give a little jump. He leaned forwards, laying a hand on her knee. She squirmed, trying to angle herself away from him, but he only leaned closer.

"All you want," he murmured, voice soft as silk, "is your brother, safe and far away from all of this."

Monique sensed he was waiting for a response. She nodded.

He gave her knee a pat. "All _I_ want is a chat with your friend Tintin. A little _tête-à-tête__, _if you will." He leaned back on his haunches and gave her a condescending tilt of his head. "There it is. My cards are on the table. No lies. I'm certain there is a compromise to be made here, one that will satisfy us both."

He stood and began to pace an invisible line in front of her, hands behind his back. "I'm not sure if you understand how much power I wield in this situation. The Mapaches depend upon me, down to every bullet I can give them. I have not yet taken full advantage of this position, because to do so would be immoral. However, I believe that on the subject of Alex, a small oversight may be made on their part."

Monique was sick of his cryptic language. "What kind of oversight?"

"If I wish, I can request him as my personal assistant for the duration of my partnership with the Mapaches, which will ensure he's well out of harm's way for as long as I can keep him. Once we're finished, it's a small favour to ask he be honourably discharged from their company. He'll certainly return to you, darling, and what happens then is out of my control. But I can get you there. You have my word."

The other shoe hung over their heads, waiting to be dropped. "...But?" Monique prompted.

Macarthur nodded. "But a compromise must be equal on both ends, true. So here's how it will go. Tintin will find you here in... oh, I'd give him about two hours. Maybe less. We'll let him swoop right in to rescue his little damsel in distress. And you've got to play your part, darling, right up until you're almost to safety. There is a red lever on the side of this warehouse by the gate, which has a section used for dumping trash and will most likely be his point of entry and exit. Give that lever a wee tug, and we'll take it from there. Simple."

Monique narrowed her eyes. She was interested to hear the other side of this, so she snapped, "You think I'm gonna turn on him, just like that? I've got a little more faith in him than you do, Macarthur. He can get me out of this."

The man grimaced. "I expected your reluctance. There is an alternate situation. It is distinctly less pleasant." He took a step towards her. "You refuse to cooperate. Tintin arrives on schedule." Another step. "We assume a welcoming exterior, using you as bait anyway. He's lured right in, and that's when the lights click on." His tone was matter-of-fact. Monique felt bare; over her skin a cold gust of wind rushed out of nowhere.

Macarthur wasn't finished. "We'll be ready for him. My men will be everywhere. Escape; impossible. Now, don't fret. They won't shoot to kill... but after all, I desire his company for only an hour or so." He moved again, closer. "The boy's already taken one bullet tonight; I doubt he'd last long after a second. When it's all said and done, you'll likely be disposed of, and Alex's welfare won't warrant a chip of my efforts."

He stopped and let his ice eyes bore into hers. "Besides, after his sister is gone, the Mapaches will be all he has to live for."

Monique couldn't stand it any longer. She shut her eyes. Even the darkness could offer no consolation; coloured spots danced over her eyelids, echoes of the harsh light.

"The choice is yours." Macarthur's silver voice slid over her.

Thoughts slung like arrows back and forth across her mind. It was hopeless, hopeless, the word even sounded hollow to her, like knocking on a locked door. _The choice is mine, sure, but the future's closed to me. Can't see two feet down ahead._ It was funny, Monique reflected, how she'd told Tintin she didn't believe in destiny. Now here she was, wishing there was a higher power at work. Wishing it was out of her hands.

It wasn't so much that she thought Tintin couldn't pull it off. _God knows I've seen him do crazier things. _It was there, though, luck's egregious weakness, where the worst possible outcome could spill through. _Maybe another girl would bet everything and never look back, but not me._

It had been two months since she'd spoken to her brother, but she'd got a glimpse of him after that, just before the Mapaches left, as she was sneaking around one of their secret bunkhouses. Monique remembered he seemed darker, eyes hard, his forced smile gleaming like a warm gun. The image shimmered before her, just out of reach, but closer.

_"I can get you there. You have my word."_

A hand descended on her shoulder, fingers digging not at all kindly into her wound. Monique winced as a white rocket of pain spiralled behind her eyes, and she snapped them open. Macarthur stood out of view, right behind her. "I need an answer, darling." His silken voice was stretched taut over a growl.

Monique swallowed. _All I've got is what I know, _she thought._ Alex needs me, and this is it. This is what I have to do._

"Okay."

She didn't realise she'd said it until Macarthur released her shoulder and came around to face her, a grin spreading over his teeth. He raised his eyebrows, wanting more.

She tried again. "I'll help you if you help me." The words came out as more of a plea than a confirmation, her breath unable to keep pace with her heart.

"Excellent." He turned and regarded the room as if playing out the future in his mind, eyes bright with glee. "Excellent!" He spun on one heel to tip her a wink. "I didn't really want to kill you, darling. You see, I'm rather quite fond of you... Oh, there's just one more thing."

He moved in close, and Monique twisted away, bracing herself for his touch. This amused him, and he took precaution not to touch her as he bent down to murmur in her ear. "You must promise not breathe a word of our little arrangement to Tintin, now. It would take all the fun out of it."

She wrenched the chair away from him with all her might, nearly tipping over. "Yeah, sure. Now I've got a condition of my own."

"I'm listening."

"I want you to swear on your sorry life Tintin won't be hurt. I don't care what you do; lock him up, knock him out, maroon him on a deserted island, whatever. Just nothing permanent."

"Why, of course not. He'll be treated with the utmost hospitality, I assure you."

"Good." Monique shot him a glare. "I would shake you on it, but I'm kinda tied up at the moment."

"Oh, I'm sure you have plenty of incentive to keep your end of the compromise."

"And what about you?"

Macarthur dipped his head in a mock bow. "You have my word as an honest businessman." He turned, chuckling low in his throat, and beckoned to his guards with a flick of his wrist. They opened the doors. Monique stared straight ahead and watched the man, his stride lithe and patient as a panther, as he disappeared into the outside world. Dusky light flooded in for a quick moment before they were gone.

The lock clicked with an echo across the concrete, and silence settled in.

Monique couldn't remember such a huge room since Muhammad Kalahn's palace; the ceiling was a monotone sky, floor so vast it seemed as if it could swallow her up.

_What did I just do?_

_ I saved my brother, _a voice in the back of her mind spoke up, one she hadn't listened to in a long while. Monique tried to believe it, put her whole heart into it because she knew, she _knew _that if Alex stayed with the Mapaches he would die. There's more than one way to die; they'd take his spirit first. She'd seen it happen to the fresh-faced Mapache recruits they took off the street. With boyhood barely three steps behind them, they were handed guns and told to kill. _It changes you. _She had to remind him there was still love in the world.

_I still love you. _She had to tell him that.

A bitter knot twisted itself around Monique's stomach. The ceiling yawned over her head, gathering up a silent storm, and she knew it would all come down on her head. She'd take the fall, when she looked Tintin in the eyes and handed him over to his enemies. _I'm not ready for this. _Monique tried to rip the reporter out of her thoughts, toss out every dream with his name on it, but she couldn't. Exhaustion caught up with her and she found herself short of breath, eyes burning.

Monique slumped in her chair, wishing it all away, even though she knew quite well wishes are useless. At last, darkness folded her into its arms, and she surrendered to a merciful, numbing sleep.

* * *

Well. *ahem* Yeah. Developments! And... bad things. If you're about to slam your laptop closed in disgust and give up on Monique, let me assure you that it's gonna get worse before it gets better. And it _will _get better, I promise. I consider this is a "necessary evil" chapter. If you have a second, I would LOVE to hear your opinion! Just basically anything that bothered you (or anything you liked) - I can't tell you how much feedback helps. It's my ambrosia. Hm, speaking of which... how would you guys like some chocolate-filled croissants, fresh out of the oven? *whips out a tray* Bon appetit! I hope everybody is having a phenomeniall summer ;) and I'll see you in Ch. 17...

P.S.- Confession time: writing bad guy dialogue is _fun. _Am I right? XD

Pssst **Seven **and **Peggy **because you guys asked specific questions in your anonymous reviews last chapter I will write responses for you on my profile (but this is the last time :( sorry I just don't have enough time these days). **Seven **please PM me once you get your account set up so I know it worked! :)


	17. To Make Things Right

Woah... is this... an update? From me? So soon? I don't think I've posted two chapters within a week of each other since like Ch. 8. Surprise! You just have to expect the unexpected, I suppose. Thank you SO much for the fantastic reviews I got last chapter - I was scared about that turn of events but you guys had only wonderful words for me, so you can colour me reassured. :) Chocolate-filled croissants for all! *delivers them on a fancy plate with a doily and a mint leaf garnish*

This is definitely a "Meanwhile, back at the docks..." chapter. Cue transition music. ;)

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

TO MAKE THINGS RIGHT

Tintin felt as if he'd spent hours wandering through the baking streets of Sanya, half his attention on keeping out of sight and the other half trying to navigate the city, when in reality it must've been perhaps twenty minutes since he'd left Mr. Kwan's shop. Every once in a while, he'd clutch his side and glance up at the relentless tropic sun. He was exposed, like an ant below a magnifying glass. The Mapaches could be anywhere, anyone. But somehow, getting caught wasn't at the forefront of his thoughts. It wasn't even close.

The argument with Monique kept running through his mind, playing out behind his eyes over and over. Her face tilted up towards his, as he held her by the arms; he couldn't explain what he'd seen in her eyes but he knew he'd never seen it before.

And _why _had she kissed him?

It was his understanding that a kiss was a gesture of affection. But nothing Monique had ever said or done to him came anywhere within the realm of affection, in fact, he was pretty sure she couldn't stand him most of the time. She regarded him as a friend, perhaps, but nothing more. Had she meant it as a trick, then? To shut him up? Make him angry? What, then, had she wanted him to do when she pressed her mouth against his?

Kiss her back?

Somehow, he'd done it all wrong. It was his fault the Mapaches had kidnapped her, he knew it. If only he'd stayed in the room and fixed things somehow or, snakes, he even wished he _had_ kissed her back, anything less stupid than leaving her upset and alone when not two hours earlier they'd almost been killed.

His wound impressed itself deeper in him with every step he took, but the real pain was knowing that somewhere in this city Monique could be in similar agony and much, much worse. Somewhere in a dark basement... possibilities came to creep along the edge of his mind like demons. _Perhaps if I could get a moment's rest, I'd think of it. Something, a plan, I'm sure it'll come to me... it has to._

When he finally made it to _The Marlin, _stumbling up the narrow metal stairs to the deck and rolling it back up, he nearly collapsed with relief. Snowy made it to the galley door before he did, and gave an impatient bark. Tintin rapped on the door, hoping the sound would be enough to roust the Captain. Sure enough, he heard a chair scrape the floor, and the door swung open. The Captain dragged him inside, slamming the door shut again.

He looked Tintin up and down. "What on earth happened to you, lad? Blistering barnacles, you've been put through your paces. It was those Mapache devils, wasn't it? At least you came out all ri-" He stopped, realising something was wrong. "Where's Monique?"

Tintin fell back into a chair and took a heavy breath. "I don't know. I don't know where they took her. They... it happened so suddenly, I mean, I'm in the other room for two seconds and they come out of nowhere, and I have no idea where she is, or what they want..." _Besides seeing us both killed, that is._

The Captain's face darkened. "Those kleptomaniacs... body-snatchers! If I get a hold of them, I'll..." he trailed off, because Tintin had lifted his shirt, exposing a red-stained bandage around his stomach.

"Ah." He grimaced. "Just as I feared. This needs to be changed."

The Captain knew better than to ask. "I'll get the gauze," he said. With Tintin's nod, he left the room and returned a moment later with a pair of scissors and a slightly dusty roll of white dressing, which he set on the table. He then pulled up a chair and leaned forward on his knees, watching as the reporter slowly uncovered his wound.

"Doesn't look good," remarked the Captain, his voice quiet. He grabbed a nearby bottle of whiskey and tipped it into a glass. "Can I offer you some?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"No, thanks, but some water would be wonderful."

The Captain obliged, and let Tintin drink half of it before saying, "You'd better start talking, lad."

Tintin took a deep breath, and began with their unexpected trip into the hold of _The Sea God. _The rest of the bright, blood-soaked morning spilled out without another word from the Captain, not even a "what did I tell you?" as he described the bullet through his side. He left out the argument in Mr. Kwan's shop, not quite sure how to explain it without explaining how Monique had kissed him, and for some reason he didn't want to divulge that part to the Captain.

When he finished, the Captain sat back and rubbed his neck thoughtfully. "So, no thoughts on where she might be?"

Tintin sighed and shook his head. He tied off the new gauze, relieved to find his wound had stopped bleeding, and pulled his shirt back over his head. It still smelled distinctly of Mr. Kwan's shop, and Tintin hoped it would wear off soon. He didn't want or need a reminder of that nightmare.

The Captain took a sip of his whiskey, resting his elbows on the table. "Didja ever hear of any secret lair, or hideout, maybe, when you were sneaking around this morning?"

"No... well, it doesn't help much, but I can rule out one place. I'm fairly certain she's not on their ship, _The Sea God, _because they know I know where it is. They'll have taken her somewhere on land, a central operating location... Surely Macarthur has been here before to conduct business. There must be a headquarters of some kind."

"There, now you're onto something." The Captain gave him an encouraging smile.

Tintin barely heard him, staring at the opposite wall without seeing, deep in thought. "Yes, Macarthur has been here before. He would have had to make sure this would all play out safely under the nose of the Chinese government. In fact, he would not have been able to acquire the guns he's purchasing here without the aid of some higher power..."

The Captain raised an eyebrow. "God?"

"No, not that kind. Nazis."

"What?"

"Remember the letter we stole from him back in Brazil? The one from _Fichtes Verteidiger_, the Nazi organization? Where is it... where is it..." Tintin stood and crossed the room to swipe through a pile of papers and maps on a nearby shelf. At length he found a manila envelope and lifted it up in triumph. "Here we are." He took it back to the table and emptied it, sifting through the letter and his own notes he'd shoved in among the pages.

"Somewhere in here, they must have told him how it would all work, they must have arranged everything. Here, here's where they're talking about Sanya." He frantically searched the page, dredging as much German as he could from the depths of his brain. He sighed through his teeth. "I can't understand this," he murmured. Then his eyes lit up on something towards the bottom of the page. "Wait... this is an address. 128 Sczen Street. It says, 'send more instructions... send more instructions here.' Or 'we will send more instructions here.' Aha! This is it. 128 Sczen Street."

"How are you so sure?" The Captain picked up his whiskey and held it to his mouth, shrugging. "He could have ten different secret headquarters in this city, for all we know." He took another swallow and set the glass back down.

Tintin sifted through the papers again, and pulled out a map of Sanya. "Well, I'm not sure. But it's worth a try." He nodded distantly, staring at the map. "I've got a feeling."

"A feeling... so you're just going to run with a 'feeling.'"

He shrugged. "It's all I have."

The Captain nodded slowly. "And this feeling wouldn't have anything to do with Monique, by chance?"

Tintin narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing, just, you're usually more logical about these things. You usually think a little more before rushing in, that's all."

He paused, setting the map down. "All right," he said, staying neutral. "I'm interested to hear why you suggest Monique is affecting my rationale." There was the slightest chill in his voice.

"Oh, er, well..." the Captain backed off, shrugging and looking down at the table. "I don't know."

But Tintin knew full well what he was getting at, and he felt his patience snap. He pressed his hands into the table and leaned forward, with a subtle challenge in his eyes. "Captain, I can tell you I've given this quite a lot of thought, and I've come to the conclusion that while Monique is at the mercy of gangsters, there is not a moment to be spent pondering whether or not I feel up to taking a chance. I've met a few of these kind of men, if you'll recall, Captain, and I'm not at all comfortable with the idea of Monique in their company."

"I know, but if you'd just stop for a minute..."

"No, I can't stop for a minute. That's just it." He straightened up and began to pace. Blood rushed to fill his cheeks, he knew his voice was growing louder, but it seemed to be out of his control. "I have to find her and I will not rest until she's safely-"

The Captain stood suddenly, nearly tipping his chair over backwards, and burst, "it's a trap!"

Snowy, who had been underneath the table, came out looking indignant. He gave Tintin a whine, not at all accustomed to conversations like this between his master and his friend. Tintin stood still for a moment, unable to come up with a response. The Captain took this as an invitation to continue.

"Look, I'm only trying to help. You're not thinking straight. You're... leaping off a cliff before you look both ways. I mean, er, haste makes waste, or... whatever. The point is; no good can come of this. Instead of just Monique, they'll have you as well."

Tintin knew anger was irrational, but somehow that part of him was squashed by the irritated voice which snapped, "I can see you have a lot of faith in my ability to outsmart them."

"_Ten thundering-_" the Captain started to rumble. He paused, grit his teeth, and went on, lower, "that's not what I meant. You're beginnin' to wear my patience, lad..."

Tintin held his hands behind his back, staring him down. "I could say the same thing."

"What I mean is, I think your blood's running a little hotter, and you're a little more impatient than you should be, for your own sake, because Monique's got your pulse jumping, and every boy in history has gone a little crazy for some pretty lass, I've seen it a hundred times. He'll go off and do something stupid for her, and in the end he'll wake up and realise if only he'd stopped and thought about it, maybe things would've gone differently."

Tintin looked at him for a moment, then glanced downwards, giving a wry smile. He shook his head and the smile dropped. "You think this... You think this is because I have feelings for Monique? Is that the only way a boy would ever be willing to risk his life for a girl, if he's in love with her? What if it was the right thing to do?"

"I'm not saying it isn't the right thing. We both know it is. I'm saying you shouldn't be stupid about it."

"Why don't you just come right out and call me a fool, then, rather than dancing around the topic?" Tintin gathered up the papers on the table and shoved them back in their envelope with a vengeance, saving out the map of Sanya with the address marked on it, which he tucked into his pocket. "Because I'm going to this address, and if Monique isn't there I _will_ find out where she is, no matter what you think of me."

"Please, lad, if only you could hear yourself. This is madness."

Tintin had turned away, shrugging a coat over his shoulders. It was hot as the hinges of hell outside, but as the day wore into night it would cool, and he needed some kind of disguise. He grabbed his pen and tucked it into his pocket alongside the map, glancing around for anything else he might need.

The Captain wasn't giving up so easily. "You'd be saying the same things if this were me, and you know it." He rested his fists on the table and watched Tintin, daring him to look up. "I'm not about to let you jump into this guns blazing, only to wind up in over your head."

The reporter tilted a cap over his quiff, and turned back to look his friend in the eyes.

"Captain, when the time comes that I'm in over my head, I would rather drown."

Just like that, the room flooded with silence, weighing heavily enough on the Captain to make him sit back down in his chair, jaw set hard. He glared at his whiskey, and Tintin knew he had to leave, quickly, before the Captain thought of something he didn't have an answer for. His footsteps were deafening as he turned and walked towards the door, beckoning for Snowy to follow. He tried to think of something, a goodbye, but in the end his hand was already on the door and there was nothing to say. He couldn't afford to lose his nerve.

Sometimes you have to do something on pure instinct, and his had never failed him before. _Please, don't start now, _Tintin thought to himself as he shut the door behind him and stepped into the deepening afternoon, the day crawling slowly but surely towards sunset.

He made his way off the yacht onto the windy dock, searching the city skyline for nothing in particular. His heart wouldn't stop racing, blood still hot in his cheeks. That had been... baffling. He _never _lost his temper with the Captain. It just didn't happen. Yet here he was, walking away from an argument he'd done nothing to diffuse, trying to make sense of it. Perhaps it was the heat, or exhaustion, or maybe he'd lost too much blood. Whatever it was, something had snapped in him when the Captain had talked about Monique like that, like this was _her_ fault somehow, for getting Tintin's "pulse jumping," or whatever he'd said. The Captain still saw her as a harbinger of bad luck, a cheeky little nobody who'd only give them trouble.

_Well, I see more than that, _Tintin thought, and at the risk of tightening the knot of panic in his chest, every little thing he'd catalogued about her flooded his mind. Maybe he didn't know as much as he would like, but he'd picked up on the tilt of her head as she looked at him, the way her hands moved when she talked, and her mind working behind her eyes. _She's clever, and brave, and although it gets on one's nerves occasionally, she's sure of herself. And even if she wasn't any of those things she's still my friend. I have a responsibility to protect her, and I may have failed on that account so far but it isn't too late to make things right again._

He pulled the map out of his pocket and picked up his pace, glancing around at the surrounding buildings as he and Snowy wound their way deeper and deeper into the heart of the city. Right behind them, caught in the curve of the setting sun, fate was about to catch up.

* * *

Oh boy. Next chapter's a doozy. But about that argument... what did you think? My head canon is that in his past, the Captain has done many regrettable things for many girlfriends and this is him trying to warn Tintin against acting rashly for a girl. But Tintin's trying to save Monique's life, not prove something to her! So they're both right. And yet they're both wrong... If you think either of them were OOC, please let me know. :) And yeah, this is like the middle of the night (for me) but I'm in the mood for pancakes. So, pancakes! Fresh off the virtual griddle, for those beautiful souls who dash out a couple words of response to this strange little chapter. Ooh, and there's also virtual bacon. BAAACON! Boy, I'm hungry. Pretty please give me your thoughts on this chapter, or any thoughts at all, even if they're just about bacon (let's be real here) and I will see you all soon in Ch. 18. Party on! :D


	18. Illumination

HI PEOPLE! *waves* I'm going to make this a really short author's note so we can get right into the story. But I have a huge THANK YOU and hugs to give everyone who reviewed last chapter - both faithful readers and new ones, too! You make me write faster and better (no really) and, besides that, make it all worth it. :) Anonymous reviewers who haven't gotten some breakfast lovin' already- you definitely deserve some steaming hot pancakes, with topping of your choice. And BACON! *fist pump* Heh, anyways, I'm practically hopping up and down in my seat with anticipation for you guys to read this chapter (so deliciously terrible...) so go ahead and read it already! Sorry, I'm really hyper right now. Can you tell? Ah, right, STORY.

...

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ILLUMINATION

_I'm on the tongue of a sun-baked rock, golden sky stretching above like some giant's got us trapped under an overturned bowl. Even without looking over the edge I know we're up real high, over some giddying abyss with no floor. Someone has his arms wrapped tight around my waist, tight like he knows I'm his._

_ "Tintin." I sing his name._

_ "Don't look down," he sings back, and I laugh. He spins me around and kisses me. His mouth is so warm I smile into it, and my hands slip over his shoulders, feeling muscle through his shirt. Boy, howdy- forget about the height, just let me stay here, right here._

_ "We're safe," he murmurs against my cheek. "No one can find us."_

_ "Don't leave me," and even as I say it I know it's stupid. I wish I hadn't wasted my breath, wasted a moment we could've filled with the other kind of conversation. Of course he's not going anywhere. We're up a rock tower the middle of nowhere without a ladder._

_Just like that the sky grows cold, and the rock shifts beneath us, like the world has tilted. Tintin is slipping away from me; all I had to do was imagine it and I made it true. I try to undo it, imagine him kissing me again. It's not working, my mouth has stopped working, and I know somehow that the sun is gone. Darkness has been tossed over everything. I hold on tighter, but his skin is so cold..._

_ "Let go of me," Tintin says, angry. His voice rings in my ears. "You're killing me. Let go!" But like sand through my fingers he's already gone. The rock starts to shake, and there's nothing to grab onto. I drop to my knees and scream._

_ That's when I know there's someone else on the rock. He was there the whole time, invisible to me until he speaks up._

_ "Monique, what do you think you're doing?"_

_ I know the voice. I've known it my whole life. I reach up blindly for his hand._

_ "Help me, Alex, please," I beg him. The rock slides and I'm falling. "Help me!"_

/*/*/*/

"Monique!" A harsh half-whisper pierced through the crumbling tower of rock. Monique was shaking, struggling with her ropes to escape in time, gasping for breath. Half a scream still lingered in her throat.

"Monique, _shhh,_ it's alright. I'm here now. Everything's going to be alright."

She opened her eyes and squinted up at Tintin's eager, ruthless grin, eyes shining with joy. His hands warmed her shoulders. For a moment she was still swimming through her arid dream, and nearly returned his smile. Then his fingers pressed against her cut. She winced.

"Oh," he breathed, smile suddenly swept away. "I'm sorry, I didn't see they hurt you... did they do anything else?"

Monique closed her eyes, breathing through her teeth. She mumbled, "No, no... no..."

"Are you sure?" He scrunched up his brow, and when she nodded he ducked out of her view. She felt him tugging at the knots around her ankles. "Don't worry, I'll have you out of this quick as you can blink," he said.

"You shouldn't have come... 'whydja come?" She looked down at the top of his copper head, bent over her ankles, and felt a little crazy. She'd woken up to the real nightmare, and she knew what was coming.

Tintin was barely listening to her, focused on the task at hand, but he managed a low, distracted reply. "What are you talking about? Of course I came. I wasn't going to wait for a golden-edged invitation. Crumbs, these knots are crazy... if only Snowy wasn't waiting outside the fence; he'd gnaw right through them."

Monique tried to calm her breath, but her heartbeat was erratic. "No, Tintin, stop, you're not listening to me..."

He popped up, standing on his knees in front of her, and put a hand on her lips, his touch brief and gentle. His eyes caught hers. "Monique, it's alright. You have to trust me. I don't know what those monsters did to you, but you're safe now, I promise."

How she longed to believe him. He was so sure of it. She wanted to tell him everything, just to get it off her shoulders, maybe he could make it all disappear. She could feel the words forming on her tongue, but then they tumbled down her throat as she swallowed quickly, shaking her head.

"Right, right, okay," Monique mumbled, and kept still while he undid her ankles, then leapt around to start on her wrists. She was fully awake now, all traces of her stupid dream washed away. _I can't let him distract me. I have to remember my promise. Remember the plan. _"How did you find me here?" she asked over her shoulder.

"There was a map of Sanya with this place marked on it in the letter we stole from Macarthur. I snuck in through the trash chute, sorry for the smell... anyway, I scaled the first building I came to, looked down through the skylight and there you were." Monique could hear the grin in his voice even though she couldn't see it. "There's luck for you."

_Sure, luck. _"Any ideas on how to get out?"

He glanced up at the open skylight. "Well, not the way I came in, obviously. Do you have anything?"

Monique swallowed hard. Her throat felt like it was filled with dust. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure that door to the side there," she nodded towards her left, "doesn't have any guards-"

"That's right where the trash chute is. Perfect," said Tintin, too impatient to hear any more, as he undid the last of her bonds. He stood and stepped around to face her, offering his hand.

Monique sat there, frozen, gripping the sides of the chair so hard her knuckles turned white. She stared at his hand, and though she willed herself with all her might to take it, to get up and run with him, it was as if she'd turned to stone. She grit her teeth and looked up at him with wild eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" Exasperation laced his voice. "We have to get out of here." His hand tensed, and he reached it out further. He was looking down at her, confused, and Monique knew she couldn't run. Not yet.

"Tintin, I... I can't," she breathed.

"Of course you can, just come with me. Please. We don't have time for this."

"No, this is the only time!" she burst, louder than she meant to. She stood up, closer than she should have. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her in further, until they were inches apart.

"Monique. If this is about... what happened before, you know I don't-"

"You don't hold it against me." She curled her lip in the imitation of a smile. "Of course you don't. No. I'm not talking about that." _What am I talking about? _Her words were tangled in her throat, and she swallowed. Was the illumination that filtered from the skylight above darkening, or was she imagining it? It cast shadows over Tintin's face, making him look older. "Why are you here?" she asked, finally.

His breath came fast like her own, lips parted, halfway between a word and something else. He tried for his confident smile, but his eyes couldn't match. "I'm here to rescue you. Anyway, what difference does it make?"

"All the difference. Is it because you think I need you? I might be in a tight spot, yeah, but you don't owe me this. Somehow we got tangled up in a big game of chance, but we don't owe each other anything."

He glanced down at his hand, clasped tight around her wrist, then back up into her eyes. "That's an awfully cold way of looking at the world."

She grimaced. "Well, that's how it is."

"I don't agree. I'm here because I care about you."

Monique saw the look in his eyes. She believed him, and hated him a little for it.

"Why?" It was almost accusatory. "What have I ever done for you that was so great?"

He thought for a second. "You stayed."

Monique blinked at him. "What? When?"

He was unfazed by the harshness in her voice. He looked at her like he could hear the plea underneath it. "Every day for this whole past month, except maybe when we were at sea, you could've left any time you wanted. For a while, at the beginning, I thought you might. You acted like you couldn't stand me. But then... I'm not sure when it happened... I stopped expecting you to leave. I started expecting you to stay. I started... wishing you would."

She drew closer to him. She couldn't help it. His unfaltering grip make her breathless, made her voice go soft. "And when I did? What happened then?"

"What can I say?" He gave her a weary smile. "I got used to you."

Her chest tightened and she glanced down, unable to meet his eyes. "You shouldn't have."

He nodded. "I know."

Monique looked up at him, and saw his gaze was still on her. He wasn't smiling anymore. She was lost for a moment; she forgot her promise, and Alex, she forgot the world outside, slowly turning to dusk without them. Surely she could have this moment, this last goodbye.

It passed before she could barely touch it. Tintin turned away from her, his eyes glinting in the strange half-light of the empty room, and dropped her hand.

He'd given her something, and Monique didn't know what to do with it. _He knows. Somehow, he knows I'm going to leave him. _She'd seen the vulnerable turn of his head, the way he nodded as he said it.

He walked over to the door with silent footfalls, cracking it open an inch to peer out and check that the coast was clear. Monique was about to follow him when something on the floor caught the light, flashing gold against grey cement.

It was a small round disc, sitting in the square of sunset streaming in through the broken skylight. Monique picked it up and recognised it as Tintin's compass. _Fell out of his pocket when he jumped through,_ she thought, turning it over in her hand. She looked over at him, and saw he was beckoning to her with his right hand, while looking out the inch of open door. He hadn't seen her with the compass, and something propelled her to shove it into her pocket before he did. It was a familiar, childish feeling, but she couldn't give it back to him. It was the only thing of his that she could keep.

She came up behind him. He turned, gave her a nod, and pushed the door open for them to slip through.

The sky had burst into all the glowing shades of late evening. Golden light washed over the surrounding metal buildings, as if they were dripping with honey. Monique took a moment to adjust to the sudden colour and unknown landscape. Directly to their left was a tall fence of twisted wire, broken by a hinged gateway some fifteen feet down.

Macarthur had given her instructions. She remembered. _"There is a red lever on the side of this warehouse by the gate."_

"Tintin, this way." She started to drag him towards it, and his feet twisted underneath him, sending up small clouds of dust.

He resisted, surprised. "The chute is right there-"

_"My men will be everywhere. Escape; impossible."_

"Come _on!" _Monique tugged harder. Could she hear the sound of footsteps, just around the corner? Boots crunching on gravel, she was sure of it, or the click of a gun being cocked, as the marksman peered down his sight... Her palms were slick with sweat, so she wrapped both hands around Tintin's, pulling him as hard as she could.

"Monique, stop, what are you doing..." His voice was low and close to hers, frenzied, even. He could hear them, too. But he didn't give any more protest than that, shocked enough, maybe, to let her drag him along.

There was only one target she had to reach. Straight in her line of vision, nothing could stop her. She had to get there before they fired.

Monique dove for the red lever and pulled it down, hard.

A fierce clank echoed through the sky. She kept a hold of the handle for a moment, feeling shockwaves through the wall as the ripples began, subtle clicks and twists that set the mechanism in motion. Her other hand was still wrapped around Tintin's wrist, and only when she let go did he stumble backwards, his mouth fallen slack, breath coming choked from his throat. He didn't run. He didn't even turn to see who may have caught them. His eyes were lost in hers, lost like he would never look away.

"What have you done?" A sharp breeze swallowed his voice, so soft Monique could barely catch it. The wind swelled around them, whipping at their cheeks with growing fervour. Over their heads a beacon clicked on, throwing Tintin's face into stark illumination. Empty echoes of the light gleamed in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Tintin, I'm so sorry..." Tears stung Monique's eyes, and all down her cheeks the moisture froze in the sudden wind. She stepped forwards. He took a step back, hands lifted slightly in defence, looking at her from the side as if she were a dangerous animal.

"It was the only way." Her voice broke, but panic only lifted it higher. "You gotta believe me, please... I had to trust him."

Tintin stopped still just before he slipped from the circle of light. His eyes grew dark. "Macarthur," he growled. It was understanding, resentment, and a greeting all at once.

Behind him, a man cast in shadow strode up, giving a low chuckle. "Ah, isn't this a pleasant surprise," he spoke with a clean, happy lilt, an off-putting juxtaposition with the kind of figure he cut in his dark suit. He caught Tintin right before he could turn around with a hand clapped on his shoulder, and brought his head down to ask, in a mock whisper, "Don't you just love surprises?" His quick grin flashed, keen as metal.

Tintin wrenched himself away and whirled to face the man, backing up to the wall as a half a dozen men in tan Mapache uniforms slipped from cracks Monique hadn't seen and formed a semi-circle around her and Tintin, their faces just shy of the beacon's golden rim. Their guns cocked, clicks echoing in the thin air as they took aim.

Tintin slowly lifted his arms, chest heaving, eyes darting from man to man. Monique could see his mind racing behind his frozen eyes. Some deep and confusing fear pushed her backwards, and without even thinking her feet shifted, ready to abandon him under the light.

Macarthur's eyes lit on her before she could slink away. He crooked a finger, beckoning her towards him. Monique swallowed. She wished the wind wasn't quite so loud in her ears. She felt the weight of the guns pressing in around them, and knew there was nothing she could do but obey. She felt the weight of Tintin's eyes on her, too, watching as she approached Macarthur like a quiet child, head ducked to her chest.

"Don't you try to sneak off before I can thank you, now." Macarthur put his thumb beneath her chin and tilted her face up towards him, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "You've done well, my little Mapache." He dropped his hand and Monique turned to face Tintin, risking an appeal in his direction. Their eyes met.

He'd stopped breathing, or so it seemed, standing still as stone. His mouth was pinched, ice eyes hard, like a thick wall pushed up to deflect any signal. Cast in golden light, he stood alone. He looked away and faced Macarthur as if he were death himself, determined not to break. Monique felt her feet freeze to the ground, becoming her own statue beside Macarthur's dark silhouette.

The man reached inside his coat and produced two black gloves, pulling them over his fingers as he spoke. "I hope the irony of this doesn't escape you, Mr. Tintin. I find it rather amusing. You came here to rescue someone in no danger whatsoever. She's been quite safe with me. In fact, the only one who needs to be saved now... is you."

Tintin gave no response but to drop his eyes to the ground.

"I must admit I'm surprised to find the world's greatest, heh," he couldn't suppress a chuckle, "investigative reporter couldn't see the time bomb ticking away right under his own nose. Monique must be quite a convincing actress, or else you're losing your edge."

A hot, angry blush rose to Monique's cheeks, and she couldn't bite down the words that spilled out. "No, it wasn't like that. I'm not a Mapache, I wasn't acting, don't listen to him, Tin-"

A gloved hand shot out and grabbed her by the chin, lifting with such force her heels left the ground. Monique gasped, and struggled in his grip. "I'm sorry, did I give you permission to speak?" Macarthur asked calmly, his gaze still locked on Tintin, who had not moved. The man let go of Monique and shoved her backwards. She stumbled but managed to keep her balance.

Macarthur rubbed his fingers together absently. "Restrain her," he said. Two hulking Mapaches came up on either side of Monique, taking her arms and pushing her back, not at all gently.

"What the... dammit, let me go," she growled, trying to wrest herself away. They only braced themselves and held her tighter. Macarthur shook his head and released an irritated sigh through his nose, but he paid no further attention to Monique as he reached into his coat, pulling something small and cylindrical from an inner pocket. At first glance it seemed to be a tiny blade, a flash of metal catching the light. Then he held it up to check its contents, and Monique's stomach dropped to the floor like a lead weight. It was a syringe, clear liquid lapping at the glass.

She tugged at the thugs' grip, but it was no use. "No-" she managed, before one of her arms was bent at an awkward angle, threatening to break, and she gasped, words dying quickly in her throat.

Macarthur brought the syringe back down, moving his thumb up to the plunger as he took a step into the circle of light. "I appreciate your good sense, Mr. Tintin, to recognise that resistance is futile. A man should know when he's been beaten." He was full under the beacon now, and he lifted his left hand, slice of silver between his gloved fingers.

Tintin's hand shot out, quick as a cobra, and grabbed Macarthur by the wrist, freezing the fingers that held the syringe. Taking advantage of the man's shock, Tintin pulled him back towards the wall, so that Macarthur became a barrier between him and the guns. The Mapaches stiffened, preparing to move so they could get a clear shot, but Macarthur raised his free hand to stop them.

"Really," said Tintin, voice treading on thin ice. "I always thought a man should fight his own battles, rather than relying on someone else to do the dirty work."

Monique could hear the twisted grin in Macarthur's voice. "All she did was bring you to me, my friend." He brought his other hand down on Tintin's arm, moving so quickly Tintin could scarce draw a breath before he was spun around, face to the wall, arm bent behind his back. For a split second he was powerless. Macarthur's other arm moved a fraction, and Monique imagined the needle finding its target point in Tintin's skin.

"The dirty work hasn't even begun."

Tintin flinched, breath panicked like a drowning man, before it slowed again suddenly. He collapsed against the wall as Macarthur stepped back, releasing him. Immediately, two Mapaches came forward to catch him before he fell. That was when the men holding Monique began to pull her back and something snapped in her. She didn't even realise she was crying until the tears choked her, stopping any words from coming out. _Tintin, _she wanted to scream, loud enough to wake him up. But when she opened her mouth, only a weak gasp escaped.

The men tugged at her like a limp doll, and she tripped along between them as they turned her away, and she couldn't see Tintin anymore. She tried to keep her breath even. It seemed the sky had turned from gold to black in a matter of moments, lost to the wind.

Macarthur came up alongside them, his own guards in tow, as they made their way to another building. "Not having second thoughts now, are we?" he asked.

Monique instinctively lunged for him, only to be caught and held back. "Not forgetting our promise now, are we?" she spat.

He gave a minute shrug, tossing his gaze somewhere across the lot. Monique tried to follow his eyes, but all she saw was the door of a shadowed edifice as it slammed shut.

"All's fair in love and war. You of all people should understand that, darling." Macarthur smiled. He sped his pace and added over his shoulder to the Mapaches, "Take her to storage A and tie her up. Can't have her making any trouble." He slipped through another door and disappeared. Monique tried to remember the warehouse he went into, and make a mental map of the lot, but the shapes of the buildings eluded her, as did her own cognizance. The Mapaches dragged her by everything so quickly it was all she could do to keep her feet under her.

She looked to the sky, scanning every inch for a brush of light, anything, but even the stars were dull. The compass hit against her thigh with every movement, too heavy, as if it could sense it didn't belong there. Monique took one last desperate, empty breath before they swung open the door of a small shed, and she was shoved inside.

* * *

AAHHH Writing this chapter gave me so many mixed feels. How can I love and hate a character at the same time? Well, Monique makes it possible. I had the 2009 Star Trek movie soundtrack on repeat while writing this chapter (don't ask me why, my mind works in mysterious ways...) and I've come to the conclusion that 'Labour of Love' is the most feels-inducing song in the universe. You have to have seen the movie but oH MY GOD. So while we're on the subject, what is your go-to heart-shattering-moment music? If you've got a good one, let me know in a review! I'll definitely be needing more for the next few chapters...

And while we're at it, might as well drown my sorrows in blackberry cobbler. Care to join me? We're practically thigh deep in blackberry desserts at my house because the wild blackberry plants are in full swing and my mom's on a baking rampage. It would be wonderful if I could hear your thoughts on this chapter, in a review or a PM or skymail, anything - the feedback is so helpful. :3 Keep on rockin'... and I'll keep writing! Ch. 19 will be up as soon as the planets are in proper alignment.


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